


no earthly creature

by goldbooksblack



Category: Nikolai Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, F/M, Inspired by Eros and Psyche (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Sex, The Darkling (mentioned) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 03:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20185255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldbooksblack/pseuds/goldbooksblack
Summary: Yet the singular passing beauty and maidenly majesty of the youngest daughter did so far surmount and excel . . . that no earthly creature could by any means sufficiently express or set out the same . . . the citizens and strangers there . . . came daily by thousands, hundreds and scores to her father's palace, and as if astonished with admiration of her incomparable beauty did no less worship and reverence her, with crosses, signs and tokens, and other divine adorations, according to the custom of the old used rites and ceremonies, than if she were Lady Venus indeed.When Nikolai Lantsov returns to Ravka after years on the sea to reclaim his throne, the last thing he expects is to find an ally in a woman about to be burned at the stake.





	1. i. the arrow

_When Psyche curiously beheld them, marvelling at the weapons of her husband, she took one of the arrows out of the quiver and pricked herself withal, and was so grievously wounded that the blood followed._

-Apuleius, _ The Tale of Cupid and Psyche _

There is silence when she walks past. Half reverence, half fear. Resentment in the eyes of the girls who step aside as she passes. Frozen gazes from the courier boys and the market boys and all sorts of boys. Leers from men who look her up and down with dark things clenching inside of them. But looks, looks only, with silence piercing the air. 

She is not of high birth. But the way she holds her head up high, even as the people around her kick up dust onto her dress from hasty movements, is enough to prompt a query. Two girls stop their chattering to stare. They have seen her since they were children, heard the whispers from the townspeople. 

And yet, that jade and jaded creature called envy does not seep its way into their thoughts. In fact, it is envy’s more well-intentioned cousin—pity—that comes to their minds when they look at her. For they, despite the jealousy fostered within them by virtue of being women—faced with the artificial tenet of beauty above all—have never wished and would never wish to be stared at like an animal in a menagerie. 

~*~

_ Zoya Nazyalensky. _ It is a name breathed from spite-curled, scarlet-painted lips. A name chuckled by lechers over tankards of ale, too drunk and not drunk enough to be silent. A name sighed, _ wishful thinking! _ from one girl to another, one boy to another. 

The poets claim that when looking up at the night sky, no matter how many stars there are, there will always be one that outshines the others. They say that humans will forsake their family, their lives, their dreams, just so they might have the chance to touch it. 

“Oh, Zoya, when _ will _ you find a husband?” Her older sister lounges on a chaise, fanning herself. 

“Yes, Zoya, it’s been far too long!” Her younger sister leans forward eagerly, a gleam in her eye. “I heard Madame Ivanov talking of her son. He is to be twenty-five this year.”

“I have no interest in Madame Ivanov’s son.”

“Zoya,” The older whines, dragging out the two syllables of her name. “With you still unmarried, shame is brought upon our family. People talk.”

Zoya takes a sip from her teacup instead. “Then let them talk.”

“Oh, but it is _ so _ embarrassing to go to tea and be asked by _ all _ of the ladies why you are not wed yet,” moans the younger. “And to have no excuse to give them.”

“Because there is none,” the older sister snaps. “Zoya, you are much too old to be traipsing around town, living in our old home by yourself. It is unthinkable and completely irresponsible. Why did you not marry Lord Petrov? He owns a fortune, and doubtless you would have been taken care—”

“—you would marry me to a man thrice my age?” Zoya snaps back. A cold laugh blows through her. “I see your minds, sisters. You think not only of Petrov or Ivanov but of the men dating back to my childhood.” She leans forward. “You blame me for growing up _ poorer—” _ she sneers at the word “—than we should have.” A wind blows through the room, although the windows are closed. Her tea goes cold.

Zoya watches as her sisters exchange a look with each other. Her fists clench and unclench. 

“Sister,” her oldest sister says, saccharine. “We are only acting in your best interest. And if only you would just marry . . . we would no longer have to hide you. Your burden, that is.” 

Her burden. Yes, it is a burden, in her home in the Western farmlands of Ravka. Where every month girls and boys and men and women are snatched away, locked up, and executed. A little bit of flame here, a few drops of mist there, a cut that heals too quickly. 

And light breezes that seem to come out of nowhere. 

Zoya stands. “Excuse me. I feel a little light-headed.” She exits the drawing room, leaving her two sisters behind. They are in the past to her. They have married, left their family home, started new lives with their wealthy husbands. 

The poets say that humans will do anything to touch the brightest star, but what about the other, dimmer stars? Do they look upon the bright one with anger? Envy? Those are powerful emotions. 

And these two sisters have been waiting a long, long time. 

~*~

They capture her in the market. 

She is inspecting a crate of apples when shouts ring down the narrow road. Ladies let out shrieks of surprise. Mothers and fathers yank their children out of the way, lest they be trampled by the horses. Officers of the duke fill the square, livery emblazoned with his colors. Zoya freezes as they clear the space around her. 

She closes her eyes. This is how it always begins. Her nails dig crescents into the apple in her palm. A metallic taste grows on her tongue. 

“Zoya Nazyalensky,” the officer growls. The apple rolls out of her hand. The soldiers yank her wrists behind her. “You stand accused of witchcraft. You will be allowed a trial where a judge will decide your fate. Until then, you will be held . . .”

The townspeople stare at her. But now, instead of worship in their eyes, there is only hate. Hate and fear. 

~*~

At the same time, a prince is a great distance from the capital. 

But perhaps the more curious thing is that he is on land and not the sea. His fingers twitch and drum against the door of the carriage, betraying his desire for it to magically transform into the railing of his ship. But at least he does not nearly look as lost as his first officer. 

“Privyet,” Nikolai asks, attempting to distract him. “Are we still far away from Arkesk?” 

“Net, _ kapitan. _ Less than twenty minutes.”

Nikolai nods, not bothering to correct Privyet. His hair is still a burnt copper, not dark gold, and his eyes are muddy green, not clear hazel. He is still Sturmhond, captain of the Volkvony, Ravkan privateer. And just that.

He brushes aside the scrap of fabric acting as a makeshift curtain on the window of the carriage, peering outside. They are still on the outskirts of the city, only yellow grass and thin evergreens lining the roads to meet them. 

_ “Kapitan?” _

“Yes, Privyet?”

“We are meeting Fjerdans?”

“Fjerdan lowlife sailors, but yes.” He flashes his officer a grin. Privyet chuckles, but Nikolai can see that there is more behind his eyes. “Not to worry, Privyet. They have little allegiance to their home country after so many years on the sea.” He pauses. “Much like us.”

The men sit in silence as the carriage rocks. “Will you be returning with us on the Volkvony?” His first officer sounds tentative, almost sad. Nikolai runs over the question in his mind. There is little left for him to do that Privyet cannot handle on his own. The seas will always be crawling with treasure.

But the crumbling dichotomy of his family, on the other hand . . . 

“No.”

“So you’re doing it, then? Claiming the throne?”

Nikolai leans his head on the carriage door, feeling the thump of the horses’ hooves on the dirt path. He closes his eyes, and speaks. “After all these years, my country needs me on land rather than on the waves.”

~*~

They have been civilized enough to give her a cell. 

The room is tiny, with barely enough space for a bed and room to walk three paces. A tiny window is set almost touching the ceiling, allowing in a single ray of light. Dirt covers every inch of it, staining the bed brown. The smell of char is so pungent that Zoya can almost taste the fresh blood on her tongue, hear the screams of writhing, burning people. 

Outside her cell, two guards rotate. They snarl _ filth _ and _ whore _ at her, their yellowed spit landing at her feet. She says nothing in return, and the guards begin to fidget among themselves. The image of Zoya’s sapphire eyes, gazing coolly at them, sears into their minds. _ So this is the power of the Grisha, _ they think to themselves. And they call her other names in their minds. _ Witch. Succubus. _

Zoya does nothing. She can do nothing except sit on her hard straw mattress or stand on the stone floor, ice underneath her bare feet. She stares at the light radiating from the window. And again, no matter how her stomach clenches at the thought, she wonders at who betrayed her. 

Or, perhaps, she wonders at _ why. _ In her heart, she already knows the _ who. _

For they have not visited her, and they will never see each other again.

~*~

Nikolai exhales as they walk out of the dim tavern. Thank the Saints the Fjerdans had been forthcoming. Provided with a few pieces of gold, of course. “You have the time and location?” 

Privyet pats his breast pocket, where a scrap of paper containing the details of a Fjerdan military voyage is held safe. _ “Da.” _

“Excellent.” The marketplace is crowded and busy, but the prince manages to spread his arms in an easy gesture. “Shall we see the local sights? Perhaps find a decent meal? The food at the tavern was awful—”

He is interrupted by a loud crack and screams. Both sailors’ heads whip towards the sounds. Nikolai sighs.

“Well, Privyet,” the captain addresses his second. “I suppose our tourist endeavors will have to wait.” They make their way towards the sound leisurely, but suddenly there is a grand push from behind them—people pushing people pushing people—and a rolling wave carries them forward. Nikolai catches Privyet’s equally confused expression as they are pushed along and deposited in the town square. His heart sinks when he sees a pole and a stack of dry hay at its base. 

“People of Arkesk!” A sallow man cries out in a reedy voice. He stands in front of the stake, a roll of paper in his hands. “Today, we rid our city of witch filth!” 

Nikolai watches as a woman is dragged out of the darkness, barefoot. Her white dress is dirtied at the hem, and thin enough to be a nightgown. Her tan skin is like moonlight to her char black hair, a background for glittering indigo eyes and rich, full lips. He gazes at the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. 

But it is not her beauty that arrests him so, though the goosebumps rising on his forearms might argue otherwise. It is the depth of her irises. She does not break her stare with the crowd as she is escorted to her death, even as they jeer and hiss and throw rotten fruit. She comes closer and closer, and soon the people behind him begin to quiet their growls and lower their projectiles. For now they, too, see the flame behind her pupils.

Nikolai does not know this city, has hardly stepped foot in it before this day, and yet the sepulchral silence that settles over the crowd acquaints him with it better than any experience ever could.

“Fathers, you will no longer live in fear of your daughters being corrupted or your sons being seduced!” The herald is still speaking. “From today on, Arkesk will have one fewer menace, and with that—” he turns to the woman. She is bound to the wooden pole, hands and feet tied. But her clear gaze remains unwavering. Nikolai watches as she turns her stare to the herald, who flinches violently. His voice shakes with confused, fearful fury. “We will be one witch closer to the decimation of your kind!”

The woman smiles at the words—such a jarring twitch of the lips that Nikolai feels as though he must have dreamt it. But no, it lingers there, the remnant of some secret joke that they have all missed. Then, as if remembering something, her eyes move back and forth, weaving through the crowd. 

They land on Nikolai. 

He is a sailor and a soldier, hardened by years of battle and voyage. But even he finds it difficult not to furrow his brow at her stare, or shiver at its intensity. The volume of the crowd rises again. The herald’s voice fades. He smells fire, and—

“Wait!” Beside him, Privyet attempts to control a startled jump. Nikolai is breathing heavily. The flames of the torch the soldier holds in his hand are inches away from the dry straw. The air has ceased to move. 

The herald lets out a scoff. “Do you have a concern?”

“How much?” 

“Excuse me?”

Nikolai takes a breath. “How much to free her?”

A loud murmur spreads through the crowd. People turn to each other with wide eyes, staring at him under suspectful glances. Wondering who this russet-haired man with gold buttons on his coat is and what he wants. 

The herald’s initial shock is masked by a sneer. “She is not for sale. She is a prisoner!”

“Yes, I am well aware. After all, people do not usually burn their daughters or wives at the stake.” The people break out in loud rebukes, forcing the surrounding soldiers to stamp their horses’ feet to quiet them. 

The herald seems to be struggling to control his rage. “She is not for sale. In fact, she is the property of the duke now.” His yellow teeth gleam in the sunlight as he grins. “And there is no amount of gold he would accept to let this heretic go.”

Nikolai stares up at the woman again. There is a crypticness to her gaze now, as she holds his attention. Her blue irises flash. 

_ “Kapitan _ — _ ” _ Privyet murmurs. 

Nikolai holds a hand up to silence him. “One hundred gold pieces,” he announces. A gasp runs through the throng of people surrounding him. It is foolish—beyond that, even—and he knows it. He has made his fortune off of privateering, but he should have banished that thought from his mind long ago. He has chosen to be a prince once more, and it is unwise for princes to spend lavishly without thought. And yet there is something thrumming through his veins, a rush sustained by the cool gaze of the convict's eyes.

The vitriol-spewing herald opens his mouth, then closes it. Nikolai lets a self-satisfied smirk cross his face. “I assume we have an agreement, then?”

“No.” The longer they argue, the more the herald seems to sweat under the expectant scrutiny of the people. 

“And why not? You say that she is a witch, a threat to your way of life—”

“—not just our way of life, our very _ safety—” _

“—and your safety. What better way than to exchange her for wealth beyond your wildest dreams? Fatten your wallets and your city, and discard of a criminal at the same time.” The fox smiles, and the hare knows that he has been ensnared.

~*~

She is silent as they ride out of Arkesk.

Privyet stayed behind to preside over the transaction. Before he had left, he caught Nikolai’s arm in his grip. _ “Kapitan.” _

“What is it, Privyet?”

His first officer had shifted from foot to foot. “Was . . . was this the wisest decision?”

“We saved a woman from the flames today, Privyet. Even if the act gorged itself on our pockets.”

“But we do not know anything about her. She could be—”

“—a witch? A heretic?” Nikolai had grinned. “I am counting on it.” 

“Where are we going?” The woman—Zoya—speaks for the first time since they have boarded the carriage. 

“A manor. Near Poliznaya.”

She says nothing more, leaving him to guess at what thoughts might be running through her head. 

“What do you want of me?” Her tone is icy and edged sharp. 

He smooths his hands over the lapels of his coat. “And why do you assume I want something?”

Zoya lets out a scoff. “Men want women for one reason only. And I do not even know your name.”

“My name is Sturmhond. And—”

“—Sturmhond?” She laughs, the sound both incredulous and acrid. “That cannot be real.”

“It is what I go by.” The Ravkan government takes care to not let slip the names of their privateers; few aside from his crew have even heard of the name Sturmhond. 

But she was shaking her head. “You want something. I want to know what it is.”

He drums his fingers along the door of the carriage. “Must you be so direct?”

“Yes. Because I am no whore, _ Sturmhond.” _ Her eyes are livid—like storms at sea, where there is water below and above, and sepulchral thunder raging all around. Nikolai’s mind flashes to being in the midst of one, seventeen and frightened, paralyzed as the angry grey cloud had drawn nearer and nearer. It had only been when a wind had blown him against the railing that he had gathered the good sense to dive below deck. “Whatever sordid, indecent, _ sex chattel _ you intend to treat me as, know this.” Zoya’s voice becomes low and rough, dyed with scarlet. “If you touch me, I will tear you apart and scatter what pieces are left of you to all corners of the country so that you will never be whole again.” 

A chill tears through him, snaking through his clothes. He frowns as his hand at the carriage door instantly becomes cold. There had been no draft when he had ridden with Privyet the same afternoon. “You are a Squaller.”

Zoya does not shrink away; he did not expect her to. Something inside him becomes giddy. He has gambled, and he has won.

~*~

Night has fallen when they arrive at the Gilded Bog. 

It is a quainter affair than Zoya had expected. Still grandiose, but less garish than she had pictured. Sturmhond had not struck her as the type to abide by humble living, but the house is no larger than her old home, with gold walls and marble steps. 

She ignores Sturmhond’s offered hand, stepping out of the carriage herself. Zoya stifles a growl when she realizes that she is still wearing her dirty, tattered dress. A breeze floats on the air towards them, only to be stopped midway. 

Soft fabric brushes against her bare arms. She scowls and bats the coat away. “I do not need your pity.”

Sturmhond raises an eyebrow. “You shivered when we stepped out.”

“I am not cold.” Zoya rounds on him. “And aside from that? Do you find my attire too revealing for your pristine fleet of servants?”

“Modesty is yours to decide. And I do not believe my nonexistent fleet of servants would mind much.” Sturmhond begins to ascend the stairs, Zoya trailing closely behind. 

The doors open while they are still a few steps away from the top, revealing two figures. Both have dark hair and uptilted golden eyes, their features too similar for them to be anything but siblings. The man is gigantic, his body like a wall blocking whatever could be inside the house. His sister is slimmer, her body muscular but still lithe. The two of them are dressed in simple tunics, though Zoya’s eyes do not miss the swords strapped to their sides. 

“Tolya, Tamar,” Sturmhond greets them. 

_ “Kapitan,” _ they reply. 

“This is Zoya Nazyalensky,” he says, gesturing to her. She makes no move to reply, and neither do Tolya and Tamar. Instead, they nod, turn, and lead the way into the manor. Inside, the main hall is paved with marble, veins of gray running through the white floors. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, candles casting flickering rays of light on the walls. Little art decorates the manor, a departure from aristocratic tradition. It only deepens the mystery of who Sturmhond is. 

They enter the drawing room, a fireplace crackling in the hearth with sofas surrounding a large wooden table. Zoya spots scarlet hair. 

Sturmhond clears his throat. “Genya.”

Genya jumps, shooting to her feet and dropping into a shallow curtsy. “My lord.” She lifts her head, and Zoya has to stop herself from gasping. The girl’s face looks as though someone has taken a sword and used her for target practice. A patch over one eye is the only break in an otherwise vicious grid of scars. 

“Genya, this is Zoya. Would you mind terribly showing her to a room and helping her settle in?” 

“Of course not.” Genya’s single eye flits up and down Zoya’s body. Quickly, but not quickly enough that Zoya would miss it. “Follow me.” 

~*~

“Was this the best idea?” 

Nikolai stares at the saffron glow of the fireplace, a glass of brandy hanging from one hand. He leans back into the cushions of the sofa. “It is a good idea.”

Tamar scoffs from her position leaning against the mantle. “Inviting a stranger into the center of our operations? What does she have to add to our situation besides a pretty face?”

“Careful, Tamar. Come on too strong and she’ll run away before you have a chance.” Tolya says. His sister glares. 

“I understand your concern, Tamar, but you were not there when she was about to be burned.”

“I suppose she was defiant. Glared at the crowd and was unafraid to die?” Nikolai remains silent. Tamar sighs. “There are plenty of people who are too foolish to realize they are staring death in the eyes. Who is to say that she was not one of them?” 

“And you, Tolya?” Nikolai turns to the other twin. “Do you agree with your sister?”

Tolya shifts from foot to foot, answer enough. “With your bid for the throne, I do not see how the girl fits into all of this.”

“Ah.” Nikolai takes a sip of brandy before answering. “Well, both of you are right.” He sees the twins exchange a quizzical look out of the corner of his eye. “She has nothing to do with the crown.”

“Then what?” Tamar asks.

“She is going to help us win a war.”

~*~

“Do you like your hair down or up? Well, it’s going to be up anyway, but would you like it half up, half down, all up, down with a bit tucked in—”

“—look,” Zoya snaps. “You needn’t stay here and fuss over me.”

Genya blinks. “I’m here under Sturmhond’s orders.”

“It sounded like less of an order and more of a suggestion to me. You can go.” Zoya stares at Genya’s image in the mirror vanity, expecting the girl to flinch and leave. Instead, a shiver runs through her as Genya’s eyes snap to hers in their shared reflection. 

“Look, Zoya,” The girl says, her tone edged with steel. “I have no idea who you are. And I cannot bring myself to care. But just get this through your mind.” Genya picks up a brush and begins to run it through Zoya’s dark hair. “I do not serve you. I do not serve Sturmhond. I serve no one but myself, and the next time you pick a fight with me—” the hairbrush catches on a knot, and Genya yanks it through. The breaking strands send sparks of pain into her scalp. “I will be far less kind.” 

Zoya sits in silence as Genya’s fingers weave through her hair. 

~*~

“Was this your plan, then?” 

Nikolai’s head turns towards the dimly lit staircase as Zoya comes into view. The white dress is gone, replaced by a gown of deep blue. Her hair is tucked back in a low bun. She is stupidly, stupidly beautiful. He curses himself for the thought. “Doll me up in the hopes that I would blindly follow you?”

“A ‘thank you’ would be appreciated.” He gestures for her to sit. 

“I’ll save that for until after you tell me why the hell you brought me here.” Her skirts flow over the cushions as she crosses her legs. 

“You’re a Squaller.”

“Obviously.”

“So why stay in Arkesk, with your Grishaphobic neighbors? Why not take up a place at the Little Palace?”

“Because I have no interest in being part of an organization puppeteered by a madman.” 

The Darkling’s face flashes in Nikolai’s mind. “And before that? Before the collapse?”

Zoya trails a finger along the satin covering her knee, a miniscule gesture that Nikolai does not miss. “I had two younger sisters.” 

The past tense is hard to miss.

“Did you stay out of duty or love?’ 

Her sapphire eyes meet his. She looks away first, a scoff escaping her lips. “Does it really matter now?” 

He seems to consider her words for a moment. Then, “I want you to help me win the war with Fjerda.”

“What?” Zoya laughs. It is shocked, but not forced, and he feels a wave of warmth wash over him. “You must be joking.”

“I’m not.”

The corners of her lips slowly come back down. “Then you must be deranged.” 

“I’m not, although Tamar might argue otherwise.”

“Sturmhond, I don’t know who you think I am, but—”

“—I’d like to. Think I know you, I mean.” Nikolai turns over the long-empty glass of brandy in his fingers. “You had the chance to escape Arkesk, but you didn’t take it. Instead, you stayed with your sisters and orchestrated their marriages to very, very rich husbands.” 

He can see the thoughts turning over in her mind. “And what makes you think you have the resources to help Ravka finally win a centuries-long war? Or, more importantly, what makes you think I’d fight to defend the country that tried to burn me just today?”

“I had enough money to exchange for your freedom. There is more where it came from. And I happen to be a privateer. The last five years have been served in His Majesty’s interest.” 

“So you’re rich. You’re a privateer. But you still haven’t convinced me of anything beyond that. You have no official link to the army. And my skills are as ordinary as the next Grisha.”

“The Second Army is in tatters, Zoya. Ravkan Grisha have fled abroad, and the ones that haven’t are cowering in Os Alta while the Fjerdans descend upon us from the north. And if their negotiations with the Shu manage to go through, we will have an issue on our southern border as well. I need someone who I can ask for advice, as well as insight into how the remaining Grisha might be mobilized.” He leans across the table, setting down his glass before clasping his hands together. “I have connections to the highest levels of the military. I assure you, any suggestions you raise will be brought directly to the top.”

Zoya is silent. Then— “No.”

Nikolai sighs. “Zoya—”

“You still haven’t proven to me why I have the faintest idea of how to provide military advice, or why I should even go along with this mad idea.” 

“Trust me.”

“Trust you?” She scoffs. “I don’t know you.”

“I didn’t save you out of the goodness of my heart. I saw something in you, and I really wouldn’t spend a hundred gold pieces just to save a pretty girl from the stake. Believe me when I say you’ll be quite useful to the Ravkan cause. And if that’s not enough—” he gestures around them. “If you agree, this is yours. This house is yours to stay in, free of charge, with Genya at your service.”

Nikolai watches her eyes roam around the walls. This time, he cannot begin to imagine the least of what she is thinking. 

“Only until the war is won.” Zoya’s gaze is fierce and cold. “After that, I am free to go wherever I please.” 

Nikolai smiles. “Then we have an agreement?”


	2. ii. the mean season

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School has been such an asshole to me (and I'm currently shirking doing my homework to post this) but I've been sitting on this chapter for a couple weeks now . . . so happy to finally get it out to you guys!

_ In the mean season Psyche hurled herself hither and thither. _

-Apeleius, _ The Tale of Cupid and Psyche _

Sturmhond is gone more frequently than Zoya anticipates. And in that time, she begins to feel more like a king’s hidden mistress than an advisor to the army. Daily life is dull—almost duller than her life in Arkesk—and only occasionally broken up by the arrival of Tolya or Tamar, bringing her maps of battles and lists of military supplies or statistics on the current financial state of the country. But other than that, she wanders the halls aimlessly day after day. 

She learns that the manor is a carefully guarded cover for Sturmhond’s various military experiments, and that all visitors are sworn to a ridiculous level of secrecy. And that Genya is a Tailor. The second piece of information is vastly more important. It is no wonder, then, why Sturmhond had put her in charge. _ The next time you pick a fight with me, I will be far less kind. _ Zoya stifles a shudder. 

But pride is a sin subscribed to by all, and Zoya’s inhibitions are too weak to admit wrong. 

“Show me what you can do.” Sturmhond tells her one after noon while the two of them are standing outside in the backyard.

“What do you mean?”

“Use your gift.” Sturmhond stands a good head and a half above her, his eyes casting a downward glance at her as he speaks. 

Zoya grows irritated. “This is the problem with you otkazat’sya. I need a direction, a goal. I don’t summon things for any whim.”

“Is that so? Then why did I espy you torturing poor Genya by making the shards of a broken teacup levitate in the air for quite an extended period of time?”

“I am certain that Genya was torturing me more than I did her. Or ever could her.” She turns back to the open field in front of them. “If you do not have a better idea, I’d like to go back inside.”

Sturmhond purses his lips, then nods to something in the distance. “That tree over there. The large pine.”

“What about it?”

“Can you make the leftmost branch snap off?”

Zoya squints. She can just make out the shadow of a segment a little longer than the rest of the others, illuminated by the sun. “It’s nearly a mile away.”

“Are you saying you cannot do it?”

She glared up at him. “Stand back, pirate.”

“Privateer.”

“Cretin.”

“My, my, what cutting words you use.” He sighs dramatically. “And yet the branch remains intact.”

_ Crack. _

Zoya’s eyes stare straight at Sturmhond’s when the branch breaks. There is no hesitation, no struggle, and no aim. In the distance, they hear a dull thud onto the grass.

She cannot help but search his eyes for some inkling of shock, or even fear. But neither of those things appear. Instead, she watches at the corners of his eyes and lips tilt upwards. A shiver runs down her arms as she holds his gaze. 

“Fascinating,” he says softly. 

~*~

“You have been reading?” They are back inside, standing within the confines of the manor’s gigantic library. It is stacked wall to wall with books, reflected in glossy parquet flooring. Two fireplaces crackle on opposite sides. Zoya and Sturmhond settle themselves on armchairs tilted away from the flames, letting the warmth radiate onto their backs. 

“There is little else to do here.” Zoya cannot keep the acrimony out of her voice. 

“I apologize.”

“You did not come all the way here to apologize.”

“No,” Sturmhond replies, all business once more. “I want your opinion on these.” He reaches into a pocket inside his coat and draws out several small rolls of paper. 

Zoya extends a hand towards them. “What are these?” 

“Maps,” he says, untying the ribbon on one and smoothing the curled parchment out on their shared table. “Of potential battle locations. This is Ulensk, on the northern border.”

She can see the cartographer’s rendition of the thick forest separating Ravka and Fjerda, the ragged mountains to the east. “You already know where they plan to attack?” She has never been particularly knowledgeable about clashes between Ravka and her adversaries; Arkesk had been far west enough that news was delayed for days, and nothing in her lifestyle had pushed her to learn more. But in the two months that she has been cooped up in the manor, it feels as though she knew even less. 

Sturmhond runs a hand through his russet hair. “It will be one of these locations.” He gestures to the rolled maps. “Our forces are weak, but so are the Fjerdans’.”

“How long has the war been going on?” Zoya feels a fool for asking. 

“The war? Oh, since before you and I were born. And before our parents were born. And their parents, and their parents, and—”

“—has anyone ever told you you’re insufferable?”

“On a number of occasions. It only makes my charm all the more worthwhile.”

“What charm?”

“You wound me, Zoya. Truly.” He smooths the lapels on his jacket. “The latest phase of the war has been in progress for the better half of the past year. Neither Ravka nor Fjerda has gained substantial ground, but that was never our intention anyway. What’s more important is where they plan to attack next, and how they plan to attack next.” Sturmhond points to a swath of rectangles, colored in red on the bottom of the map. “Right now, our troops plan to be stationed here, on a hill above the border. We’ll let the Fjerdans come to us. As they charge, a third of our troops will split from the rest and meet them directly, while the other two sections break off and surround them from the sides. We envelop them, and from there it’s just a matter of whose soldiers are better trained.”

Zoya studies the map. Sturmhond’s fingers pin the corners down, patiently waiting for an answer. “If the Fjerdans are going to arrange themselves as broadly as traditional armies, how will you easily envelop them?”

“They should break formation once they cross the border.”

“But the border is only—” she uses the smallest segment of her finger to measure the distance “—less than a mile wide. They can’t be _ that _ poorly trained.”

“What are you suggesting, then?”

“You let them come to you. But you draw them further in. Make it appear as though you are fleeing. And they need to come through the forest, yes? So instead of pushing your troops outward and then forcing them to run around the Fjerdans, why not hide some in the forest and have them encircle them from behind?”

Her words hang in the air in the absence of a reply. Zoya twists her fingers in her skirts. Sturmhond’s eyes are still fixated on the map, his head tilted to the side. She has already told him that she is not anything but a girl from Arkesk who had the misfortune of being a witch, and here he is, asking her to scheme up plans for world domination. 

“That is . . . a very good plan.”

At this, she rolls her eyes. “This was a test, then? To see obvious flaws in a plan, and correct them?” Zoya’s blood heats at the idea, and she stands. “Well then?” She demands. “Have I passed?” 

Sturmhond looks up at her—looks _ up, _ for the first time. He says nothing. She waits a beat, two, three. 

But the privateer remains silent. Merely staring at her. Fingers still smoothed over the crisp parchment. She turns away. “Good night, Sturmhond,” she says stiffly. 

“It wasn’t a test,” she hears him call after her. 

Her fingers unclench.

~*~

He is gone the next morning. And the morning after that. And the several mornings following.

Zoya is unconcerned. He has never visited the Gilded Bog frequently. She does not think much of it until Genya makes an offhand comment about Sturmhond and the twins, and—

“—what do you mean, _ battle?” _

Genya’s amber eyes meet Zoya’s in the mirror. Her fingers go still in her hair. “You didn’t know?”

“No.” Zoya loathes the sound of her voice as she answers. It is obscene to her to not know anything. Especially that.

“They set out a few days ago.” Genya loops a segment of hair around her fingers, pinning the curl in place. The Tailor looks up again, and, as if anticipating her question, “I don’t know where they are now.”

“How many days ago did they leave?”

“It is hard to say. I heard it from one of the men who came back to fetch some of Sturmhond’s weapons.”

Zoya resists the urge to let out a strong exhale. It was not as if she’d known nothing about the

conflict; Saints, Sturmhond had asked her specifically about it just days ago. But there was no reason to care. Sturmhond was an insufferable pirate, after all . . . who happened to be ensuring her asylum. Still, there was no need to panic. She would manage with or without him. 

“You are worried, are you not?

“No,” Zoya snaps. “A few weeks ago I had no knowledge of any of . . . this.”

“But now you do,” says Genya. Calmly. Coyly. “It’s quite all right to become attached.”

“I’m not attached,” she snaps, but a flicker of something—shame? No, it couldn’t be—wavers in her heart. For in Genya’s eyes there is no lingering ice, no whisper of grudge. It is as if the two women have been acquaintances for a lifetime. As if Zoya hadn’t tried to demean her upon first meeting. Goosebumps nearly rise on her arms at the thought. There are two little troublemakers in the world named history and grudge who take pleasure in linking elbows and terrorizing people’s minds. Zoya had never imagined that she would meet someone who had driven them away.

The beating of hooves sounds outside. Genya drops her brush and races to the window. “Oh, it’s them!”

“Sturmhond?”

The Tailor cranes her neck. “No, I do not see him. But Tolya and Tamar are here, and—” she pauses. 

“What is it?”

“David is here.” The sentence is spoken in a near-sigh. 

“Who is David?”

Genya turns back to her, and Zoya can see freckles of scarlet blush dotting her cheeks. “Sturmhond’s engineer.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And just Sturmhond’s engineer?”

Genya picks up a pillow and throws it at her. “Shut up.” 

“I did not say anything.” 

“No, but I could see it in your eyes.” Genya sits down on Zoya’s bed, hair arrangement forgotten. “It is . . . complicated.”

Something inside Zoya itches to bite back a cold, uncaring remark. It is immediate, a visceral reaction. But there is another internal plea. To listen. To talk. “How so?”

Genya hugs a pillow to her chest. “He never . . . notices me.”

Zoya scoffs. “How could he not?” Genya is gorgeous. Breathtakingly so. Her scars—however she received them—do not change the delicate beauty that must have existed before. 

She clings more tightly to the pillow, and the Squaller realizes the true extent of their conversation. “He seems more interested in his machines and his chemicals than an attendant.”

“But you are not merely an attendant. You’re a Tailor.”

“Maybe,” ponders Genya. “But we have little in common.”

“That must be a lie.”

“Why?” 

“You rushed to the window as if you were looking for him.” Zoya leans back in her chair. “A practiced rush.”

The blush blooms fully on Genya’s cheeks now. “Fine. I . . . share an interest in chemicals with him. I like technology. Sometimes. But all of it is fruitless.”

“You must have used the chemicals for some pursuit.”

“I—” Genya’s words are gutted in her throat. Something in the air changes. Zoya feels like a child who has stumbled upon their mother’s jewelry box. “I did.” The Tailor digs her nails into the pillow. “Did Sturmhond tell you about . . . did he tell you why I look the way I do?”

“No.”

The Tailor sighs. “When I was young . . . I was . . . given to a man.”

Zoya’s stomach starts churning. “Given?”

“I was the apprentice of another Grisha.” Genya shakes her head, and snorts. “Or so I thought. He wanted me for nothing more than my face. And the fact that he knew he could throw me into someone else’s bed for his own gain and I’d do it. Happily.”

“Genya—”

“—don’t.” She shakes her head. “I was . . . taken for years. Forced. But I . . . I took all of that back.” 

Zoya sees the edge of her lip curl, stretching a scar. “You poisoned him?”

“Every time he touched me, he hurt himself.” Genya stands and walks to the window once more, peering behind the curtains. “I covered every inch of my skin with toxin to ensure it.”

This time, Zoya cannot hold back her shiver. But something else inside her . . . “And then what happened?” 

Genya leans her head against the window frame, still not looking at her. “He was too powerful to be jailed, the man who touched me. But there was another man who had power and was kind to me, and he sent him off somewhere. Never set to return to Ravka again.” 

“It was Sturmhond.” 

Genya nods. “I owe it all to him. If it wasn’t for him . . . well, I would have probably been hanged.” She turns back to Zoya. “Do you understand?” It was a quiet question. 

Zoya nods and Genya smiles sadly. “I knew you would. The world is not so kind to women.”

~*~

David is a tall, lanky man who looks more teenager than adult. He disappears almost immediately into the basement of the manor after mumbling a hello to Zoya, followed closely by Genya. 

Zoya greets Tolya and Tamar just as they are unloading the carriages. “What happened?” 

Tamar raises her eyebrow at her snappish tone but Zoya is too eager for information to care. “Your plan worked.”

“It did?”

“You sound surprised.”

“No, of course not.” Zoya tampers down her slight shock. “But what exactly happened?”

“Well,” Tolya grunts as he hefts a large bunch of sheathed swords onto his shoulder. “The Fjerdans didn’t break formation for more than a half mile, as you predicted. But once they were sufficiently over the border, it was easy for us to close in on them.”

“And Sturmhond?” 

“He is still on the border, supervising the treatment of a few prisoners of war. But he wanted me to give you this.” Tamar hands her a folded paper before jogging up the stairs to relieve her brother. 

Her mind has not yet caught up with the events before her fingers begin to tear at the letter’s seal. 

_ Dearest Zoya, _

_ You were right about luring the Fjerdans in, although I suspect you knew you would be. My soldiers tell me that because of you, we prevented some three hundred men from being unnecessarily sacrificed. I had to accept credit for the innovation (to avoid suspicion of course), though I can already see your disgruntled face in my mind’s eye while writing this. Fret not, dear Squaller. You will have your moment in the sun, if that is what you wish. _

_ I will be returning to Poliznaya in three days’ time. And donning extra armor in preparation for when you inevitably try to sweep me off my feet (I’m expecting the non-romantic, injury-inducing kind, but the romantic one is appreciated as well). _

_ Your esteemed privateer, _

_ Sturmhond _

“Bastard,” she mutters.

The force of Zoya’s grip on the thick stationery encourages wrinkles to form. Still, a part of her breathes a relieved sigh. She has long since rejected the idea that she owes anything to Sturmhond in return for him saving her. She has already resolved that he had done that of his own accord, without her input. But everything that came after that—housing her in the Gilded Bog, asking her for strategy—it tethers her to him. Whether she likes it or not. 

Whether she would allow herself to like it or not. 

~*~

Sturmhond, as promised, swaggers into the Gilded Bog three days later. 

Zoya is in her bedroom, alerted to his presence only by the sudden shuffling of people beneath her and the snorting of horses outside. She sets her hairbrush down on her vanity, smooths the silken material of her dress, and makes her way downstairs. 

“. . . we have about a hundred Fjerdans in captivity,” Zoya hears Sturmhond’s low voice. “Including two colonels. I’m hopeful that we can use them in our negotiations—” He catches sight of her descent. “Ah! Our military mastermind.” He holds his hands out to her, flanked by Tolya and Tamar. 

She scoffs, folding her arms. “I would hardly call myself that. And besides, aren’t you the true mastermind?”

Sturmhond smiles. “I don’t think the army bought my claim to victory. Not all of them, at least.”

Zoya cannot resist rolling her eyes. “Aren’t your soldiers clever.”

“Found him,” Genya’s voice echoes into the salon as she enters, followed by David. 

“David, good to see you. I was rather hoping you could meet me in the backyard after lunch. I want to go over the plans for the _ ismars’ya.” _

Zoya sees the Fabrikator instantly brighten. “Yes, of course.”

“Fantastic. But first—” she stiffens instinctively as Sturmhond fixes her with his green eyes. “I need to speak with you.”

“With me?”

“Of course,” he says, as if it is the most obvious thing. The privateer offers her his arm. “Shall we?”

Zoya scoffs. “Would it not be easier to simply tell me where we are going?”

He drops his arm with equal gallantry. “Are all women as unresponsive to my charms as you are?” Sturmhond pantomimes thoughtfulness. “No, no. It must just be you.”

“Are all men as overzealously intrusive as you are?”

“‘Overzealously intrusive.’ I do believe that is the first time I have heard that phrase used as a synonym for charismatic.”

Zoya rolls her eyes. “Will you just show me where we are going?”

~*~

Poliznaya is a sprawling metropolis, one of Ravka’s four major cities. Zoya must lift up the fringe of her skirts in order to avoid being trodden upon by the horse-drawn carriages and people criss crossing the marketplace. She still refuses to take Sturmhond’s arm—something in her squirms and protests at the thought—but traversing through the marketplace is proving more difficult than imagined. 

“Are you all right there, Nazyalensky?” 

She glares at his tone. Sturmhond smirks. “Cocky bastard,” Zoya says as she loops her wrist around his arm. The privateer laughs, a warm sound that strikes her to her bones. “Why am I here again?”

“I wanted to take you to see the local sights.”

“Bullshit.”

“I wanted to take you to meet the nice locals.”

“Bullshit.”

“I think you are beautiful.”

“Correct, but that is not the reason.”

Sturmhond miraculously finds an empty bench in the middle of the square and offers her a seat. He leans back against the wooden backing, allowing his head to fall back. His eyes close. For a moment, the irreverence, the irk, the cockiness falls away. Zoya sees layer by layer disappear, like a Matryoshka doll, until something golden at the very core remains. 

She rather wishes she hadn’t. 

“Are you going to talk to me, Sturmhond, or just bask in the light until your skin starts to peel?”

“Sailors don’t become sunburnt, Zoya. We’re far too smart.” He opens his eyes and looks at her, grinning. “Some of us, at least.”

“You must have received quite a few burns in your career, then.” 

“You’re meaner when I have my eyes open, Nazyalensky. That’s the reason why they’re closed.”

“My meanness is not contingent upon you, Sturmhond. I do believe it’s the one thing that doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Ah. A shame.”

“I am five seconds away from walking back to the manor by myself.”

“That’s it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Walking.”

She stares at him. “You’ve gone mad. Walking? That is your big topic of conversation?”

“Precisely. You see, I have been thinking.”

“A first.”

“Hush,” he chastises, and Zoya acquiesces—if only because the excitement rising in his voice intrigues her. “You are a Squaller.”

“I’m glad you noticed.”

“You have the air at your request, at your beckoning. Have you never thought of the ways you could make your life easier? Simplify things?”

“I was a little occupied attempting to avoid capture and execution.”

Sturmhond’s smile fades. “Of course. I apologize.” 

Zoya tampers down the feeling that rises up from her toes into her cheeks. “Go on.”

“Right. You mentioned walking. But what if you didn’t have to walk? Or sail, or swim? What if you could just—” he exhales. “Fly?”

She feels her gaze widening. Saints, what was he talking about? “I was joking before. Walking is hardly mad compared to—_ what?” _

“Zoya, listen.” People all around them hurry by, unaware of the scene that is playing out in front of their very eyes. “I have thought about this extensively. I have worked out designs with David—”

“—the _ ismars’ya _ are meant to be used underwater—”

“—not the _ ismars’ya. _ Something else. A new type of ship. More lightweight. Capable of sailing as well as flying.”

“But how are you going to fly? You cannot—” it dawns on her. “Oh.”

Sturmhond shifts. “Yes.”

“Mad is too benign a word,” she says weakly. “You are a verifiable menace to society.” 

This time, he does not smile. Instead, he grasps her hands in his. “Think about it, Zoya,” he says earnestly. Warmth shoots up her skin. His hands are at a ridiculously hot temperature. “Think of what an advantage that would be. In war as well as transport, if that is your persuasion. We could transport people, goods, weapons, faster than by horse and sea combined.” 

“You are overlooking a glaring error,” Zoya says flatly. 

There it is, that quirk of the lips, the cockiness returned. “Tell me.”

She folds her arms over her chest, a wind ruffling the lace under her décolletage. “You will need multiple Squallers and possibly Tidemakers. At least five of each. Otherwise, how could you possibly hope to even get your boat—ship—contraption off the ground? I—“

“—well hello there, miss.” The sour stink of ale and chauvinism clogs her nostrils and the personification of both appears in front of her, leering lewdly. The man is thin and haggard, fat and burly. “Your pretty boy doesn’t look like much company. How about I take you home and show you what a real man is like?”

“I am extraordinarily glad you find me attractive, sir, but less glad about your proposition. Did your mother never teach you that one of the ways to gain attention from ladies is . . . not to do what you just did?” Sturmhond’s words are humorous, but there is no trace of humor in his voice. Only a steel edge.

Sour Chauvinism growls. Zoya rises and steps between the two before a fistfight breaks out. “I would much enjoy accompanying you,” she says with all the girlish sweetness she can muster. 

In the distance, so quietly that no one but her can hear, the skies begin to argue amongst themselves. 

“But I have to let you in on a little secret,” she leans closer. Zoya can smell the stench of wine on his breath. Sour Chauvinism looks all too pleased with himself. “He might have a loose mouth, but truth be told I prefer him to you. At least he doesn’t stink of ale and have a tiny prick.”

Zoya watches his expression go from smug to confused to enraged. “You little bitch—“

Sturmhond shoots to his feet. Both of them are so engaged that neither of them notice the graying sky, the gathering air blowing gentlemen’s coattails and clinking ladies’ earrings like wind chimes.

“Cunt,” Sour Chauvinist snarls. 

Zoya picks at her nails. “I do not believe anyone needs to hear you list your own anatomy.”

Sour Chauvinist advances, fingers curling into fists. Sturmhond tenses. “Nazyalensky—“

Screams erupt from a gaggle of girls as the interloper is thrown into the side of a clothing store by a gust of wind. All commotion stops; all eyes are on the dazed man slumped against a wooden wall. Silence. Then the chatter starts up again and people look this way and that and _ my Saints, what was that? _

Zoya exhales. Her heart is running a race against her brain, and it takes everything she has not to let it win. Her bloodstream feels shining, gold, liquid _ merzost, _ and she knows that is preposterous because blood cannot be gold but that is what she feels and that is what she will tell people if they ask.

“I believe I am more amenable to your idea now.”

~*~

They spend an entire month formulating exactly how the contraption is supposed to function.

Sturmhond was giddy when Zoya agreed to help him. “It shall be called the Hummingbird,” Sturmhond had declared. Zoya had rolled her eyes then, at the very beginning of the month, when they had neither paper nor a plan. 

But now the moon has waned, a ship sits behind the Gilded Bog, and Zoya leans back on a chaise longue in Sturmhond’s private sitting room. Her feet are up on the cushions and tucked underneath her because she is in her nightgown and if Sturmhond was going to invite her for a spontaneous nightcap, he might as well have expected a bit of casualness to come with it. 

“A month,” he muses, passing her a full glass of wine. Zoya rests her arm on the back of the chaise while Sturmhond settles on the opposite side of the sofa, his arm propped up. Their fingers are almost touching. “Would you have guessed we would be done in a month?”

“We are not done.” Zoya takes a sip of wine, the tart liquid sending sparks dancing across her tongue. “In case you’ve forgotten, we have yet to make it actually _ fly. _ And if it cannot fly, then how will you cut down your enemies without mercy?”

The privateer raises his brandy glass to her. “Ruthless as always, my dear Zoya.” 

“Pragmatic would be a more astute word,” she rebuts dryly. “What would you do otherwise? Row your boat across land and hope you hit a few Fjerdans like pins in a game of bowling?”

“Forget the flying ship,” Sturmhond blinks. “I want to make _ that _ a reality. Call David; see if he can make a grease for the hull so it can glide with more ease.”

Zoya cannot hold back the laugh that bubbles out of her throat. “First words I say to him tomorrow morning,” she promises, looking back up at Sturmhond. 

He is looking at her, muddy green eyes slightly widened as if seeing the sun for the first time—too bright, then hazy, then one of the most wonderful sights the human eye has to offer. 

She flinches. The feeling ignites and then dies, but her reaction . . . the fact that she does not drop her wine glass and run out of the manor at that very moment makes her flinch. I want to, Zoya thinks. I want to run. 

But she doesn’t. She remains reclining. It is the wine, she thinks. She knows. She hopes.

“I have a question for you.”

“Go ahead,” Zoya says, punctuated by a bold—and stupid—sip of wine.

Sturmhond smirks. “Feeling daring tonight, are we?”

“Ask the question, pirate.”

Sturmhond sighs as if he is the long-suffering one. “All right, then.” He sets down his brandy glass on the table. “Why did you not try to escape your execution? I saw what happened at the square. You could have freed yourself. But you chose not to.”

Her grip on the stem of her glass tightens. Sturmhond still has the chance to afford her the courtesy of not having to answer. But his emerald gaze sharpens, and she knows that the only way she can get out is if she tells him no. And yet, Zoya has the feeling that neither of them are quite used to denying themselves what they want. Something inside her twists, and she is not very inclined to dismiss it.

“It would not have been worth it.”

“Would not have been worth it? You were about to be burned at the stake.”

“Fine. Let us imagine an alternate path where I fight my way out of the situation. Where would I go? I couldn’t go to Shu Han or Fjerda.”

“Why not stay in Ravka?”

Zoya swirls the dark liquid, the bottom of the glass flashing against the light as it peeks through.

“Clearly you have been away from Ravka for too long.”

“What does that mean?” There is no offense in his voice, only genuine curiosity.

“It means that no one escapes the crime of being Grisha. Outside of the Little Palace, dukes run wild. Sometimes people are lucky and they are born in a duchy where the duke is sympathetic. Other times . . . the duke sees themselves as the ultimate savior. Put on earth to rid their land of Grisha filth.” Zoya looks at him. “There is hardly a question of what type I lived under.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry for? You weren’t the one trying to kill me.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Unless you lured me here under the guise of a months-long plan to make me trust you, secretly planning all along to kill me once I outlived my usefulness.”

“You and I are much too pretty for those kinds of nefarious plans.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Do you, then?”

“Do I what?”

“Trust me.”

“I shouldn’t,” Zoya says. There is a long pause. “But I do.”

Sturmhond gives her a smile and in the flickering firelight, all of his scars and edges are softened. He seems like a new man, though Zoya knows it is just a trick of the light. “I’m glad,” he says quietly. 

“Then since we trust each other, let me ask you a question, Sturmhond. Who are you really?”

She swears something changes in his posture, if only for a second. A second too long.

“Elaborate, dear Zoya.”

Zoya glares slightly at the “dear.” “You obviously weren’t born a pirate—“

“—privateer. And how would you know?”

“Because you walk, dress, and talk like someone who has had a silver spoon under their tongue their whole life.”

“Fair enough.”

“If you were not born a pirate . . .” Zoya continues sipping. The volume of wine is getting dangerously low. “Then you were someone else. You had a different life before you decided to be a criminal.”

“Privateers aren’t criminals.”

“I answered your question. Answer mine . . . _ pirate.” _

Sturmhond glances thoughtfully into the flames. Finally, he speaks. “You are correct. My family is . . . wealthy. Wealthy and illustrious, though I will be the first to admit that we have made some terrible financial decisions as of late.”

“You are . . . merchants?”

“Not exactly. We’re . . . old money.”

Zoya stares at him. “Saints, you’re an aristocrat, aren’t you?”

He smiles weakly. “Right on the nose.”

She throws her head back and laughs. “Who would have thought? The charming son of an aristocratic family, running off to become a pirate. Sorry, _ privateer.” _

“Thank you. And you believe me to be charming?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s the wine talking. Why did you decide to leave? Couldn’t handle all the parties?”

“First of all, I was the second son. Being rich is all good and fine, but by the Saints, there is absolutely nothing in it for the second son. If I could speak to all the second sons of aristocrats in the country, I would tell them to get the hell out.”

“How uplifting.”

“Second of all, aristocrats are notorious gossips, the whole lot of them. No secrets can be kept. Even the ones about the circumstances of one’s birth. And no advice is ever given out to rectify the consequences of gossip. Not even advice, say, about what to do when you hear that your birth was not quite as noble as your parents would have you believe. Or about what to do when you look into those rumors and they happen to be true.”

Silence pricks the room like a puff of warm breath in the bitter winter. Zoya inhales sharply and holds it. She is not sure what to say. Or if she can say anything. She settles on a weak “oh.”

“Yes,” Sturmhond agrees with a whisper of a smile around the corners of his lips. _ “Oh.” _

“Well,” she says. A long pause follows before she finds the words to continue. “I suppose it lends you credibility on the seas. The illegitimate son of an aristocratic family trading his scandalous, if luxurious life for a scandalous, decidedly un-luxurious life. It suits you.” For a moment, Zoya thinks she has said the wrong thing. The circumstances of birth are nothing to jest about, especially in Ravka.

That is, until Sturmhond laughs, a full smile coming to rest on his lips. “Nazyalensky, you were as wealthy as any aristocrat when you were captured. Why these attacks on me from a fellow silver spoon owner?”

Her heart shutters. This time, the wine lends her no confidence. “You deserve it more.” The words come out harsher than she meant them to. Sturmhond’s smile fades a little. “I need to sleep. Good night.”

“Zoya, wait.” To her great irritation, he stands with her, looking down at her. “I—” He is so very close to her, and if he wants, he can lean down and—“If you need anything, let me know.” 

“I will.” Neither of them move. The stars in the sky hold their breaths. The moon strains behind the clouds and time tilts its head towards them. 

And then he kisses her. 

Saints, he is _ kissing _ her. His lips are warm on hers. Consuming her. Lighting her on fire and plying her with oxygen. 

She lets everything go—everything—when she twines her arms around Sturmhond’s neck and opens her mouth for him. He nips at her bottom lip and she cannot hold back the soft moan that escapes from the back of her throat. 

She gasps and tears herself away. Light blazes into her eyes and bells screech in her ears. “I must retire to my rooms.”

Sturmhond’s autumn hair is mussed and his lips are swollen like apple boughs. “Zoya—“

“Good night, Sturmhond.” She leaves before he can say anything else. 

~*~

“Something happened between you and Sturmhond.”

Zoya keeps her eyes trained on the Hummingbird being lifted out of the underground tunnels. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Genya huffs. “Last week you two were thick as thieves, heads bent over the blueprints, enjoying coffee into the late hours of the night. Now you can barely look him in the eye. Something happened. Something _ erotic.” _

Zoya smacks her arm. “Genya, do shut up.” 

“So it was erotic?”

“Genya, I will fling you into the pond.”

“Oh, Saints.”

“What?” Zoya snaps, her eyes watching the Hummingbird carefully. She can spot Sturmhond’s russet hair glinting in the sun as he paces up and down the deck. At any moment, he will shout across the field for her and it will be up to her. To _ fly. _ They had gone over the plans dozens of times. Sturmhond is confident of his ability to pilot the ship and her crew to safety in the case of something going wrong. Zoya is confident of her ability to render Sturmhond’s expertise completely unnecessary. 

“He kissed you, didn’t he? Or did you kiss him? It doesn’t matter. You two kissed each other!” Genya is jumping up and down and squealing like a child in a sweets shop. She groans at Zoya’s pointed silence. “There can be no more stolid denial, Zoya. I know all.”

“Yes, and we quake in the presence of your omnipotence. Mind your own affairs, Safin.”

“Not until I mind yours first.” The Tailor settles her hands on her hips. “Tell me all about it. Where you two were, what you said, what happened after . . .”

“Nothing happened after.”

She clucks her tongue. “How virginal of you.”

“It was not nearly as sordid as you are imagining.” Zoya stalks back and forth, eyes fixed on Stumrhond’s tiny figure in the distance. 

“Where were the two of you?” At the look on the Squaller’s face, Genya huffs. “Fine. How about this; I will describe events to you and if I am right, you will tell me.” She runs a hand over her scarred temple. “You two were in the study.”

“No.”

“In the salon.”

“No.”

“In the kitchen. Doing communal cooking with an undercurrent of sexual attraction.”

“No.”

Genya is silent. Then she gasps. “In his chambers?” Zoya’s silence is as good of an answer as any other. “Oh, you two dirty harlots.”

“We. Did not. Do. Anything.”

“Surely you wish you had though,” she chortled. “Stray from your shyness, my friend. I’ve thought once or twice about it too.”

Zoya would have surely punched her friend in the face if Sturmhond had not shouted, “Ready!” 

Genya inclines her head towards the ship. “The curtain is raised.”

~*~

Zoya has never been on a boat before stepping aboard the Hummingbird. It is massive, its deck planked with lacquered wood. Her boots make solid, rounded echoes as she makes her way across to Stumrhond. There is a wild look in his eyes and a wind tossing the red threads of his hair. “Fine morning for a flight,” he declares. 

She rolls up the sleeves of her dress. “Let’s get this over with.”

He grins broadly at her and she feels the cadence of her heart play a triplet instead of straight beats. They still have not spoken about their kiss. Zoya smothers the feeling with an eye roll. “Not eager to be up in the air, Nazyalensky?”

“Not eager to watch this whole operation crash and burn.”

“Optimism, Zoya.” He rests a hand on the railing. “We have scoured every inch of this plan for weakness. Death is not in the cards for us.”

“Today?”

“Ever.”

“Well, we have to die someday. We are hardly gods, after all.”

“Who decided that?” He tosses a roguish grin over his shoulder. 

“Only madmen believe they can challenge the Saints,” she retorts.

“And only madmen can make ships fly. Ready?”

Zoya cracks her knuckles and shakes out the nerves in her hands. She has been resting up for this day. Her muscles constrict and loosen. A thread of uncertainty winds itself through the eye of her bone. She yanks it out. She cannot be uncertain today. No one can be uncertain today. 

The air settles, a silent predator. All eyes turn to her. She exhales. She raises her arms. 

Gasps disrupt the air as the boat ekes out a heavy creaking sound. From below, Genya shouts, “It’s moving!”

Pure power sparks through her like lightning hitting a church spire. The wind may be the ruler of the world but Zoya is the queen of queens. 

And then, there is no more friction. No more scraping against the dirt, lifting up the grass. Only the boat, coasting along the clear, crisp air. They are high above the ground now, the height of one tree, then two. Then more. And then . . .

The boat gives a sickening lurch. Zoya feels the wind snapping against her, a dog biting at its leash. The deck tilts, and she grabs the railing, her feet sliding. Her teeth clench. 

“Zoya!” Hands, warm hands are on her arms. Sturmhond’s olive eyes come into focus. “Zoya, can you land?”

It feels as though her soul is being rent in two. She is tired, so tired. If she submits to the whirling cold, it would take her and she would be whole again . . .

No. She will not be known as the one who brought their operation, their dream, crashing down. The Squaller grips the railing with both hands, knuckles bone white against her tan skin. A scream seizes control of her throat as she lashes out. She can feel the wind recoil, taken aback. The deepest parts of her soul are escaping. Memories she had thought were gone, feelings she had thought were hidden. 

The ship sinks into the soft dirt, skipping like a rock on a pond for a few beats before stopping. Zoya leans her full weight against the side, gasps coming out of her in deep and throttled breaths. The air settles again, as if to say _ we have an agreement. _ The world is silent. 

Then a cheer erupts from the crew of the Hummingbird. The noise is dulled in Zoya’s ears, her blood roaring so insistently that she can scarcely hear anything else. Sturmhond’s hands are on her again, gently shaking her. “You did it, Nazyalensky. You did it.”

~*~

Afterwards, Sturmhond disappears in a flurry of David and the twins and Genya takes her upstairs to rest. Zoya lays on the bed for an eternity, her head spinning. She does not know whether to laugh or to sleep. She had made a ship fly. She had warred with the wind and it had bowed to her as its mistress. She feels exhausted beyond belief, but she cannot rest. The electricity coursing through her has not died down yet. 

Zoya slips her arms into her robe and makes her way downstairs. Night has fallen; the manor is silent. Her bare feet pad surreptitiously on the floor. She does not know where she wants to go, but evidently her feet do. Sturmhond’s door looms before her. And before she can stop herself, before she can slow down and think, she knocks. Just one knock, easy enough to miss. 

Sturmhond is dressed in a loose linen shirt, his hair mussed. “Zoya. I did not expect you.”

“Am I intruding?”

“Never. Please, come in. Wine?”

“Please.”

She settles on the sofa. Sturmhond pours her a scarlet glass and he seats himself next to her. “Is something irking you?”

Zoya exhales into her wine, the fragrance settling around her like whispers. “No.” She takes a sip. His eyes are still on her, piercing. 

“I have a confession to make.”

Pinpricks run down the length of her body. “What?” She breathes. “What is it?”

Sturmhond leans back against the cushions and runs a hand through his hair. It occurs to her then that he does not look as though she has woken him up from dead slumber. He looks very much awake. “I looked into your history.”

Ice flows through her. Zoya is a girl from Arkesk, nothing more. She has only two secrets and Sturmhond already knows one of them. The other . . . 

“Your name is in the village registry of Pachina. Zoya Nazyalensky and Valentin Grankin. It looked as though the city scribe had thought to make his job a little easier by filling in the names of people set to be married before the wedding occurred. However, the date of the entry—”

“—I was nine.” It comes out. Zoya’s head spins and it all comes out. “My family was originally from Pachina. My father had recently died and we had been saddled with his debts: my mother, my sisters, and I.” A glob of phlegm trickles down her throat, slimy and raw. “My mother worked, but it was not enough. My younger sister was too young and my older sister was our mother’s prized possession. So she thought to throw me to the city’s rich old bastards instead.” Anger has long dissipated from this story. Only emptiness remains. It is a vortex that she will feed for the rest of her life. “Grankin was a widower twice over, and six, nearly seven times my age. I had not yet . . . bled. But he was rich. Richer than my family would ever be, even if you added up an entire lifetime’s worth of work. My mother viewed it as an equal trade and I did too.”

“Zoya . . .”

“I did not become fully aware of what I was agreeing to until the day I was to be wed. I cried and cried to my mother, but she snapped at me.” It is an ethereal experience, this confession. Zoya cannot feel the cushions underneath her legs, nor the floor beneath her feet. She feels as though she is floating, looking down at herself and Sturmhond. “She was more concerned about the blotchiness of my face and what people would think than my tears.

“No one came for me. No one said anything to me as I entered the chapel that day. I kept my head down for half the walk to the altar. But at the midway point, I felt something change inside myself. It tasted like metal. My pulse leapt into my throat. I lifted my head. I saw Grankin. 

“And then the world went to hell.”

“Because of the storm that day?”

“Because _ I willed it.” _ A chill sweeps through the room. “The roof came caving down like a barrier between Grankin and myself. I heard my mother, my sisters shrieking. And then I spoke. I screamed. I said that I would not marry Grankin and that if they forced me once again I would bring the whole town to ruins. I would destroy their homes, their town, their families. They stopped after that.

“We could not stay in Pachina after that. Grankin was too powerful and the whole town knew by that same night what had happened. We took what we had and ran.”

“And . . . and then? After you reached Arkesk?”

“My mother died a few years after. I was fourteen and my older sister was seventeen. By that point she had become involved with the son of a local lord. They wed quickly after my mother’s death and our family became comfortable. My younger sister found a husband a few years after as well.”

“Your sisters . . .” Sturmhond lets the pause hang, uncertain, in the air. “Your planned execution . . .”

“They exposed me to the duke.”

“You know of it?”

Zoya leans her head against the back of the sofa and sighs. “No. And yet I do know. I know now. But I am hardly surprised.”

“Why not?”

“They blamed me, the two of them. We were fugitives after we left Pachina. We were poor when we arrived in Arkesk. Had I kept my mouth shut and married Grankin as I should have, we would have lived like little princesses in our tiny town.” 

“And with you gone now . . .”

“No doubt they are being hailed as heroes,” she says dully. “For turning a Grisha criminal in. It would have taken them much courage, but they did it. They must have been coerced by their witch sister to keep quiet but they finally decided no, that they would not allow themselves to be slaves anymore.”

“Zoya—”

“—I have outstayed my welcome.” Her robe swishes around her knees as she stands. “Good night.” 

“Zoya, please.” His fingers encircle her wrist gently. Sturmhond’s green eyes are austere. “I am sorry. For everything that happened to you.”

No one has ever apologized to her. She has never allowed anyone to apologize to her. They sound like dry cheeks and dry handkerchiefs at funerals. But Sturmhond’s words are quiet. Restrained. 

She kisses him.

It takes both of them by surprise, dry lightning splitting a clear sky. But he responds in kind, a hand coming up to hold the back of her head. Sturmhond lifts her into his arms, too short by herself to reach him. Zoya feels her back hit the wall. The privateer smells like ocean salt and his breaths in her ear send a shock through her as if she was sailing through a storm. 

This is unlike their previous kiss. Their previous kiss had been chaste in comparison. This kiss, these kisses, are fiery. Neither of them can come up for air but they would rather drown than let go of each other. 

She is set down on a soft bed. Cold air settles on her skin as Sturmhond pushes her robe off her shoulders. His head disappears into the junction of her thighs and she throws her head back as his lips touch the top of her folds. Everything disappears around her. 

Zoya jolts against him, her entire body lifting up so far that she can see his red hair between her legs. She nearly comes again at the sight, at his continued ministrations and oh Saints, his fingers are pumping inside her now. His name slips from her lips in a moan. 

Sturmhond comes up, his body covering hers. She feels his length stroking against her. “Sturmhond.”

“Zoya.” Her name is exhaled sharply. His teeth make marks against her clavicle, her breasts, the soft flesh of her neck. Zoya’s nails dig into his back, willing him to stop playing around. “Sturmhond,” she moans. He groans as she trails a hand down his abdomen towards his cock. His teeth are clenched around a dusty nipple when he thrusts into her, one solid stroke that makes her clench tightly and gasp. 

She has no illusions about sex. It is something that is done because it is done. But this is not that. This is done, this is being done because she wants it and Sturmhond wants it and she has laid herself bare already and she does not want him to stop doing what he is doing. 

He hits a certain point inside her and she cannot take anymore. Zoya gasps and cries out his name, head turning away from his searching gaze. She crushes the sheets in her fists. Sturmhond moans into her ear and finds his own bliss. For a moment she forgets who she is, forgets everything in her past and the murkiness of her future. 

~*~

Zoya wakes the next morning to an empty bed. Her mind races as to why she is tucked in neatly but naked under the sheets, until she sees her clothes on the floor and remembers the events of the night before. The warmth in her chest fades. Where is Sturmhond? 

The sounds of shuffling and talking sound from downstairs. Zoya dresses quickly. If there are people coming to tidy the room, she does not want to be caught nude and off-guard. 

Once she is settled back in her own room, she leans against the door and lets out a long sigh. She should not have done that. They should not have done that. She and Sturmhond had been enjoying a partnership, an easy friendship. Now that . . . what would happen? Zoya thinks about it while she pulls on a day dress, brushes out her messy curls, and walks downstairs. 

Only Genya is there to greet her in the foyer. “Genya? I thought I heard some commotion down here. It is only you?”

There is a strange, troubled look on the Tailor’s face. “The others were here. They just left.” 

Something drops in her stomach. “And Sturmhond?”

“He went with them.” 

“Genya, is something wrong? You look pale.” 

“The news came this morning.”

“What news? Genya, what is it?”

“The king. The king is dead.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	3. iii. a drop of burning oil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely not my favorite chapter so far, but I wanted to get something out to all of you lovely readers before it got too late. Happy new year everyone! May your 2020 be full of happiness.

_ But alas! while she was in this great joy, whether it were for envy or for desire to touch this amiable body likewise, there fell out a drop of burning oil from the lamp upon the right shoulder of the god. _

-Apeleius, _ The Tale of Cupid and Psyche _

“You have been away.” Zoya traces a jumbled pattern on Sturmhond’s bare chest as she catches her breath.

She feels the vibrations of his laugh under her head, stuttered by his heavy breathing. “Have I neglected you, dear Zoya?” The privateer presses his lips against her hair. Zoya nestles closer to him, a draft flowing in from some unknown corner of the bedroom despite her best efforts. 

“Yes,” she decides haughtily, rolling her full weight onto him. Sturmhond groans as her elbow jabs him in the stomach. Zoya leans her forearms flat on his chest, looking at him expectantly. 

“Well then,” murmurs Sturmhond, leaning up to plant a kiss on her lips. Zoya nearly giggles, a girlish sound she’s never made. “How should I make it up to you?” She bats her eyelashes coquettishly and says nothing. He laughs. “The past four times were not enough for you?”

She fluffs her hair. “For tonight, I suppose.”

“Mmh.” 

Zoya gasps as Sturmhond flips them over, hands pinning her wrists down. He is so close to her, beautiful face inches from hers. The cool air nips at her bare chest, but with Sturmhond’s warmth bearing down on her, she hardly feels it. Heat curls low in her belly as he fixes her with his muddy green eyes. She leans closer, lips almost touching his. “Sturmhond . . .” she whispers. Sturmhond inhales sharply. 

She falls back down against the sheets indecorously. “What has kept you away?”

Sturmhond laughs through his nose and sinks into the bed beside her. “So tenacious.”

“Is that a bad thing?” 

He does not respond. Zoya props her head up on a fist. Sturmhond’s eyes are far away. “Os Alta is buzzing with excitement,” he says finally. 

“Is it? I thought the people did not care much for the king.”

“No. But every funeral has a silver lining.”

“And what is that?”

“Food.”

Zoya laughs. “I see. And the new king, Vasily?”

“Not quite king yet.” There is an unusual tone driving Sturmhond’s words, one that she cannot place. 

“No? I was under the impression that coronations were supposed to take place quite rapidly after a king’s death. It has been two long months already.”

“It has. But some members of the palace have expressed their . . . reservations.”

It is common knowledge that Vasily Lantsov is, by all definitions, a playboy and a prat. Hardly proper behavior for a king. “I do not see the issue.”

“No? You would like a man who only cares for prostitutes and ponies on the throne, fingers in the people’s money?”

“It is no different from the past three Lantsov kings this country has had.” Sturmhond is, again, uncharacteristically quiet. Zoya presses on. “The economy is down. Dukes become wealthier and wealthier, and serfs suffer even more. Crops are failing. Ravka is a woman in a carriage driven by a Lantsov king, and neither of them can stop the horses from hurtling them off a cliff.”

“Is that truly what you believe?” He asks softly.

“Is there anything else to believe?” 

“In a brighter future? A prosperous Ravka, modernized to suit the needs of its people. A country where aristocrats pay into the government, not just the ordinary people. A Ravka where one day, serfdom may be abolished. Where the rich men that rule this country are gone.”

“I keep thinking that I have seen the bottom of your pit of madness. But every new conversation opens up a deeper hole before my very eyes.”

“You really believe such initiatives are impossible?” 

“In another country, no. In Ravka . . .” Zoya makes a face that makes Sturmhond roll his eyes. 

“Nazyalensky, you are impossible.”

“Tell me one reason why I should believe in this country.” 

“Do you know the cause that you have been working for these past few months? Or have you been living under a rock? Oh, wait,” Sturmhond points to the elegantly decorated ceiling above them. “It seems that you have been living under the beautiful roof of a dashing privateer, so the rock theory cannot be.” He _ oomphs _ as Zoya pokes him in the ribs. 

“Scoundrel.”

“Privateer.”

“Pirate.”

_ “Privateer.” _

She sniffs. “Pirate.” Zoya turns away from him. 

In an instant, Sturmhond’s hands are on her, flipping her over for the second time that night. She gasps as his lips go to her pulse point, his teeth biting down a hickey. “I thought we agreed we were done for the night.”

“Not quite.” 

His fingers dip down between her legs and Zoya forgets all her questions.

~*~

“Is the king intending to replenish the forces along the border?” Tamar points at the map as she speaks, brow furrowed. “Our defenses are thin. If the Fjerdans catch word of it, we may not have enough time to send reinforcements before they act.”

Zoya watches Sturmhond comb his fingers through his hair. “I do not know yet. He has been occupied since his father’s death.”

Tolya raises his eyebrow. “With the treasury? Or with his horses?”

Sturmhond does not smile, though the same jest had fallen from his lips just the previous night. “Vasily has said little about his new role. The king’s advisors are eager to seize upon his silence.”

“The Apparat,” murmurs Genya. The privateer nods. 

Tamar swears. “He will have the entire palace under his thumb if Vasily does not act.”

“And unfortunately, I suspect the king will not.” Sturmhond’s muddy eyes survey the map, the sunlight streaming through the windows a slash of white against his jaw. 

“Is this a coup attempt?” Zoya interjects. She is half joking, a lame attempt at lightening the atmosphere. 

Tolya’s eyes widen, and she opens her mouth to remedy her very possible declaration of treason before he interrupts, “Do you know? About N—”

“—Tolya. Back to the plan, please.” Sturmhond’s eyes are downcast. 

“What do I know about?” Zoya asks. She sees Sturmhond exchange a weighted glance with Genya.

“My brother was referring to the recent skirmish that broke out between a group of Fjerdan miners and a squadron of Ravkan soldiers,” says Tamar. “It took place just last week, and we were unsure if you had a chance to read the report yet.”

“No,” Zoya says. She has to try very hard to keep the ice out of her voice. “I have not.”

Sturmhond brings up something about pushing further into Fjerda, and everyone forgets about Tolya’s hiccup. Everyone save for Zoya. 

In Shu Han, there is an expression for what Zoya feels, though it has no analogous counterpart in Ravkan. It is best translated as _ the suffering of a mute person when they eat bitter herbs. _

~*~

“You must tell her.” 

“Elaborate, please.” 

Genya places herself between Nikolai and the map. Her amber eyes bear straight into his. “I know you two are sleeping together.”

“Genya, you see, when two people feel a very strong attraction to each other—”

“—if you were not second in line to the throne, I would gladly defenestrate you. Right here and right now, for everyone to see.” The Tailor squeezes his forearm, a gesture of urgency. “Nikolai, you must tell her.”

He closes his eyes and lets himself feel the full weight of the world upon his back for the first time. The throne. Vasily. Her. Everything. “I will not. I cannot.”

“Nikolai.” Genya forces him to look at her. “If you care for her—if you even entertain the idea that you care for her—you will tell her.”

“She will never forgive me.” It slips out before Nikolai can control himself. His entire body freezes at the admission. He has never allowed himself something so candid to hold, to say. 

“Would it be better if you live this lie? If you continue to pretend to be someone you are not?” Nikolai does not budge, and she looks upon him. Pity glimmers in her eyes, though there is still worry in them. “Zoya will find out. She will. Either now, when you tell her, or later.” Genya moves to leave before stopping and adding, “And after her exhibition with the Hummingbird, I would fear the latter.” 

Nikolai stares at the spot Genya had stood upon long after she is gone. But just as the sun begins to tremble and wither, Tolya enters the room. _ “Kapitan. _ There is news of fighting. Near Sikursk.”

“Sikursk? How did the Fjerdans travel all the way here?” Sikursk is a city barely six hours by horse from Poliznaya. And six hours from Os Alta. If the Fjerdans were there . . . “Gather my weapons, please.”

_ “_There are also reports . . .” Tolya hesitates. “There are reports that the Fjerdans have Grisha on their side.”

Nikolai exhales sharply and painfully. Prejudice is a thing that can shatter armies, a fact that the Fjerdans seem to have learned. “Understood.”

He leaves in the night.

~*~

“You like him.” 

Zoya looks up from her novel. “Genya?”

The Tailor looms over her, hands on her hips. “You. Like. Him.”

“Is there a point to this confrontation?”

Genya shrugs and sinks into the seat beside her. “I am simply making conversation. This house is lonely.”

Zoya makes a point of loudly turning the page. “Sturmhond,” she starts, keeping her tone as neutral as possible. “He and the twins, have they left to travel to the border?”

“Sikursk,” Genya says by way of replying. 

“Sikursk?” This time, she cannot keep the surprise out of her voice. “Why there?”

“There was news. A group of Fjerdan soldiers.” 

“All the way down here?” Fear is not what Zoya feels. Only alarm. “Why not Os Alta?”

“It is a mystery to me as well. Perhaps they believed Os Alta was too fortified for them to take.” 

Genya shivers as a stray wind effuses into the room. 

~*~

“David. David. David!” 

The Fabrikator only spares her a glance when Zoya shouts his name. “Hello,” he says, the word stilted. A wisp of guilt floats on her mind as she takes him in. He is clearly shrinking away from her. “What can I do for you?”

“I have a question.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “If it do not concern clockwork or mechanics or manufacturing or machines or—”

“It concerns none of those things.” 

“Then I am unsure of how I may be of help. In fact, now happens to be an unfortunate time for questions—”

“—you have just now picked up that cube in your hands. You held nothing when I came in.”

“Still, I am extremely busy and I am certain Genya will be able to answer any queries you may have—”

“—I will make a bargain with you.”

David stops at this. “A bargain?” 

“An answer for an answer. If you answer my question, I will answer any question you may wish to ask of me.”

The Fabrikator’s lips set in a straight line as he ponders Zoya’s terms. The metal cube creates ridges in his hands from where he grips it. “I accept.”

“What are the twins and Genya keeping from me about Sturmhond?” 

“What do you mean?” 

Zoya sighs. She has to give David credit for the clearly discernible amount of effort he is putting into his know-nothing pretense. “Do not lie to me. I am the only one in this house that has not been with Sturmhond since the beginning. I am the only one whom information can be kept from.”

“I cannot tell you.”

“An answer for an answer, David. And I am quite certain you want to know the answer to your question.”

“How do you know what I will ask you?”

“What you _ wish _ to ask me, David. It will be merely a wish until you answer my question first.”

His grip and the cube turn his hands red. Zoya can see the conflict flickering in his eyes. “I cannot tell you. I swore an oath.” She shrugs and turns to leave. Wait!” He amends hastily. She watches as he places his palms flat on the workbench. 

He sighs. “Sturmhond is not his true name.”

“I know that. Everyone knows that.”

“No, you do not understand. Sturmhond is not his true name.” It looks as though every word twists an invisible sword deeper into his gut. 

“What is his true name, then?”

“Zoya. Please.” David shakes his head. “My oath. I do not fear Sturmhond, or what will happen if I break it, but please allow me to be an honorable man. I swore an oath. That is all I can tell you.”

“Fine.” _ Sturmhond is not his true name. _ “Ask away.”

“Genya . . .” He hesitates. “Does . . . does she—” 

“It is not my place to say.” David deflates visibly. “But there is no reason why your hope should be denied.” 

“Then . . . she feels something?”

“Ask her,” Zoya replies, already halfway gone. 

_ Sturmhond is not his true name. _

~*~

An assassin enters the palace in the gentle night and slips belladonna into the king’s wine. 

Vasily is dead by morning and the search for the bastard son stumbles to life.

~*~ 

She sees him and she does not see him. 

She sees Sturmhond when the sounds of people shuffling on the gravel outside grow louder and louder. She sees Sturmhond when Tolya and Tamar support him, one of his arms around each of them. She sees Sturmhond when she steps outside onto the landing, his eyes going impossibly wide when their gazes meet.

The problem is that she recognizes him at all, given the fact that he wears an entirely new face. 

Gone are Sturmhond’s muddy green eyes. Gone is his red hair. Even gone is the pirate swagger, replaced by a stately, grim resolve.

Zoya is left on the landing, out in the cold. 

~*~

“I must go. I must go!”

“Nikolai, hold still until a Healer arrives.”

“No,” he gasps. “I must go!” Nikolai’s hip thuds against the wood table in his frenzied

movements and he moans in agony.

“Nikolai,” Tamar growls. “If you do not hold still, you will die on this table and you will

never see her again.” He falls silent at that.

There is a breeze and he attempts to rise again. But it is only Genya, red hair even redder against her pale face. “What happened?”

“An arrow to the side.” Tolya’s face is wan. “We did not move it for fear that he would

bleed out.” 

“Genya, you are no Healer,” Tamar interjects. Nikolai has never heard her sound skittish before.

“No. But the nearest Healer is still three hours away and I fear that Nikolai will not have that long.” Genya takes a breath. “Your Majesty, with your permission . . .”

“Given,” Nikolai chokes out. The pain has become unbearable. He can hardly see the Tailor, black spots dancing in his vision. He hears the sound of a jar being unscrewed. “Genya . . .” 

“What happened with your face?” Her voice is low. Tolya and Tamar have left. 

“A mist,” he gasps. “The Fjerdans, they . . .”

“Nikolai. Stay with me. Do not close your eyes.” A searing, burning pain ignites his abdomen and he screams. Brandy drips off his skin and onto the floor. “Tell me about the mist.”

“It came out of nowhere,” he grits his teeth and anticipates the removal of the arrow. It feels as though his skin is being turned inside out. “A dark, heavy fog that engulfed all of our men. It did not hurt them.”

“It only changed you.” Realization emerges in Genya’s voice. “They knew about you.”

“They must have suspected. And with Vasily dead . . .” Nikolai turns his head. He had not mourned his brother when the news had been brought to him. He had tried to. Vasily had been half his blood, half his bone, but when Nikolai had faced himself in the mirror, he could find no similarity. “They sought to root out the next king.”

“Shit,” Genya curses softly. A warm sensation engulfs his side. Not pain. Warmth. “Take this.” She holds up a dark bottle. “For the pain.”

Nikolai takes a long sip and resists the urge to spit it out. “What is this?”

Genya gives him a conspiratorial look that reminds him of better times. “The less you know, the better.”

The pain eddies away and Nikolai lies down on his back. “Genya . . .” The question sticks like a fishbone in his throat. 

“She saw you.” The Tailor sits and sighs. “Nikolai, you had no hope of hiding this from her.” 

~*~

The Squaller sits on the sofa in front of the crackling fireplace. She wears the prison shift she had arrived at the Gilded Bog with, now clean. One large valise rests beside the sofa. She is poised, her fingers crossed over her knee. 

Zoya does not raise her head when he enters the room. She stares directly forward, at the unoccupied seat before her. He does not come into her line of sight until he is seated. 

“Zoya—”

“—who are you?” Her sapphire eyes burn through him. 

He sighs and she holds her breath. 

One single breath. An inhale. “Nikolai Lantsov.”

An exhale.

“King of Ravka.”

“Yes.”

Zoya looks up fully at him. She takes in his dark gold hair, his crooked nose. _ Not even the eyes are the same, _ she thinks to herself, and it strikes her somewhere deep in her heart. “Congratulations, then. I will be taking up no more of your time.” She stands. “Goodbye, Your Majesty.” She curtsies.

“Zoya,” Nikolai says softly. Painfully. “Please.”

A gust of wind blows the fire out. The candles flicker. The windows burst open. 

“No,” she snarls. “No.” 

“Please, Zoya, I—”

“—you what? Lied to me for months? Fooled me into believing that you cared about me?”

“I was not fooling you, Zoya, I swear—”

“—no. You were not fooling me. I was merely fooling myself.” She stares at him. “You do not understand why I am upset, do you?”

“Zoya—”

“—I am upset because I trusted you. I am upset because I told you everything about myself. I am upset because I let you into my bed, into _ me.” _ Hot, fat tears fill her eyes. She is angry. She is angry at him but she rages at herself. She should have never stepped foot into this house. She should have died in Arkesk. 

“Goodbye, Nikolai.” 

~*~

From the first cry of their infants to the last words of their elderly, the common folk breathe their envy of the king. They envy his gilded palace, his fleet of servants. They envy the constant train of beautiful maidens and sumptuous delicacies that pass in and out of his life. 

The crown, however, has changed heads. Tonight, the common people do not have a king quite yet. There is curiosity and hope, sneers and slander. But there is little envy.

Tomorrow, when Nikolai Lantsov sets out on the road to Os Alta, the envy will rise again, like a tide to the moon. But tonight, the people are quiet in their homes and he is quiet in his gilded cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	4. iv. vexed my enemy with loathsome love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On winter break for a couple days right now! It's been a seriously stressful year. My mental facilities have been stretched to their maximum (like a rubber band). Please forgive me if I seem antsy on my Tumblr or on here. 
> 
> Hope everyone is having a good year (or school year) so far. Please, please, please take care of yourself and your mental health before you begin to think about anything else.

_ Whereas thou shouldst have vexed my enemy with loathsome love, thou hast done contrary. _

-Apeleius,  _ The Tale of Cupid and Psyche _

Os Alta is a labyrinth. It is sprawling and bustling like Poliznaya, but nowhere near as cozy, if cities can be described as cozy. No,  _ cozy _ is the last word that Zoya would use to describe Os Alta.

Ravka’s capital is a mess of contradictions. It is icy, but warm. It is formal, but unceremonious. It is wealthy, but poor. 

As one approaches the walled palace, pedestrians’ gaits slow and their clothes become more elegant. Vendors retreat indoors, behind polished panes of stained glass. Dirt roads turn into cobbled lanes. When the heels of her shoes echo on the stones, something like pride, something like comfort flares up inside her. She hates it, hates it with everything she has, but Zoya cannot stop herself from slowing down to match the pace of the women sauntering in to jewelry stores, dripping in lace and satin. 

The irony is that Zoya does not live in the wealthy quarter. She does not even live in the middle class quarter, where the residents move as if perpetually worried. No, she lives in a tiny alleyway in Os Alta’s least enviable neighborhood. A part of the city rife with thieves, rapists, and the ilk. Sometimes she will lie in bed, the sounds of fighting thumping against her brain and on the street outside her window, and she will close her eyes and think of Poliznaya. 

Even then, she would rather be in her bed in a den of wolves and snakes than in a marble house with wolves and snakes hidden underneath the pristine tiles. 

~*~

“Three beers! Ay, are you deaf? Three beers for table six!” 

Zoya tampers down the urge to snap back at the pub owner. She loads her tray with huge mugs of the frothy liquid, taking care not to slosh it this way and that. “Three beers,” she says sweetly, setting them down. 

“Why, thank you very much, little miss,” the men chortle. As Zoya turns away, internally recoiling, she feels a sharp pinch on her behind. 

Metal coats her tongue. Instantly.

A sharp scream echoes behind her. The voice of one of the men, grated raw. The pub goes silent. 

“Hey!” In her peripheral vision, Zoya can see another man advancing. She pretends not to notice. “Hey, you! You witch!” His fingers come down on her wrist. 

Sparks run through her blood once again, and the building and all its occupants could have been destroyed had the pub owner not started to snarl. “Get off of her, you filthy heathen!”

“But she —”

“—she what? She brought you your drinks, and then your friend decided to pinch her.”

“But then—”

“—then he decided to seize and shake in a foolish attempt to gain her attention.” The pub owner places her hands on her hips. “If you want to do that sort of horseplay, do it outside my pub. I’ll not tolerate that sort of lewdness here. Go on. Go!” 

The man backs away, cowed. 

The pub owner waves a dish rag at him, her movements sharp. “And take your rabble with you!”

Zoya watches as the three men leave. The man who had pinched her is still moaning in pain, one arm around each of his companions’ necks. Slowly, the pub begins to louden again. Zoya uncurls her fists from the tray, her fingers sore from gripping it so tightly. 

“Listen, girl.” The pub owner places herself in front of Zoya, half a head shorter than the Squaller. “I know what you are.” 

Zoya meets her gaze coolly. “Are you going to turn me out?” She tries feel as blasé as she sounds. She has only been in the city a few weeks, and this is her only stable source of income. 

“No. I don’t care what you are. You’re a good sort, and that’s the first fuss you’ve made since you’ve been here. It’s clear you’re not here in Os Alta because you want to be here. You don’t speak like the rest of us. You don’t carry yourself like the rest of us. You’re a rich girl, or you were. Look,” the woman lowers her voice. “Those men are the better kind that venture into this area of the city, if you can believe it. Other men don’t care if you’re Grisha or not. All they see are a pair of tits and a cunt. You’re a pretty girl.” The pub owner looks her up and down, at her neckline and at her hem. “Don’t make it easier for them.”

“Are you suggesting that my clothes are the reason for their attention? Is it my fault this happened?”

“No. It’s every bit the fault of those bastards. But this is a dangerous area. I wish I didn’t have to tell you to dress modestly. But the police don’t ever come here. Ever.” She leans back against the counter. “We do what we can. You’re safe here from wandering hands and wandering eyes, but only here. Understood?”

“Yes,” Zoya says flatly. 

~*~

“Your Majesty, it is such an honor to have you return home.” 

Nikolai stifles a cringe at the Apparat’s simpering. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tamar and Tolya exchange a disgusted look. “It is good to be home,” he says carefully. Nikolai begins walking, long strides attempting to carry him far away from the mystic. “Have arrangements been made for my brother’s funeral?”

“Yes, of course.” The Apparat pants with the effort of keeping up with him.

“May I see him? Where is he being kept?”

“In the medical quarters, Your Majesty. He has been embalmed.” 

“Excellent.”

“He will be carried from the palace to the Cathedral of Saint Alexander at precisely nine hours after sundown tonight.”

Nikolai stops suddenly, turning on the man so quickly that the Apparat nearly falls over. “Nine hours after sundown? Pray tell, why are we carrying the body of an anointed king of Ravka as if it is not a royal act but a criminal one?”

“My king—”

“I am not your king yet. Your king lies in the medical quarters, body stiff and pale and, it seems, waiting to be thrown out into the night without so much as a goodbye or a blessing. So now, when you begin to spin an excuse for me, remember that it is him you are speaking to.” 

The Apparat swallows harshly, a movement that somehow conveys not trepidation but contempt. “I have consulted with the holy books, Majesty. They speak of dark things to come if we step so brazenly out into the sun.”

“And what are these dark things?” 

“I—well, you see—”

“—Apparat,” Nikolai interrupts. “My father held you in high regard. As did my brother. But do not think that I am as keen on you as they were. We shall bury my brother in three weeks’ time, once preparations have been made for my coronation.” He turns on his heel.

“Majesty—”

“I no longer require your assistance as of right now. I shall visit my brother alone.” The king leaves the dark-garbed mystic gaping in the hall, color blooming high on his white cheeks. 

_ Careful, _ whisper the flames flicking their shadows against the walls of the palace as Nikolai passes by.  _ Careful, my king. _

~*~

Vasily does not look much different in death than he had in life. The same weak chin, soft skin, plump lips. Nikolai can almost imagine him climbing up off of the table and barking an insult at him. 

Nikolai looks down at his brother’s body and tries very hard to evince sympathy, sadness, anything inside of himself. He cannot. He had once loved Vasily and Vasily had once loved him, but those days had long passed and all they had been left with was ice and ill will. 

“I hated you.” Nikolai’s throat feels raw. “I hated you. I fucking hated you.”

No response. 

“We used to be friends. I doubt you remember it. The military service changed you. You came back a vain, conceited pig. Father was endlessly proud of you, parading you this way and that. I suppose you two had a connection, him with his fingers up maids’ skirts and you with your trysts in dirty slum beds.” Nikolai clenches and unclenches his fists. 

“You came back, and you could hardly bear to look at me. You shared Father’s resentment. You forgot the hours we used to spend together, playacting battles. You forgot how I would always let you be the victor, though I was far better with swords. You threw all of those memories out of your mind and replaced them instead with new memories. Memories of you breaking precious artifacts and pinning the blame on me. Memories of you tearing apart Mother’s jewelry room in a tantrum and testifying that I had done it. You made her cry, but I was the one who was confronted with the blame.” Nikolai takes a deep, controlled breath. He feels heat creep up his face. “You made my life hell.” 

No response. 

The anger finally shocks him into standing, and Nikolai’s fist comes down on the table, narrowly missing Vasily’s grayish leg. His breathing is heavy before it slows.

The king hangs his head. “Of course, I suppose it was not just you who was responsible for making this place unbearable.

“What would it have been like? If you and I had continued to be friends? Would you tell me about your life and your problems? Would I have told you about my life and my problems? Vasily, I met someone.” Nikolai can hardly believe himself as he continues, “Vasily, I met someone and she is . . . gone.

“You and I, we never had . . . we never saw what affection was. Mother and Father loathed each other, and we knew it. Perhaps that’s why you ran to horses and I ran to the sea. But she and I, we . . . I knew what affection was when I was with her.” A smile splits his lips painfully. “And I lost it all.” 

Vasily gives no response. It is the best conversation Nikolai has ever had with his brother.

~*~

“Nikolai, you have a problem.” 

“This is my first glass of brandy in three weeks, Genya.” 

The Tailor towers over him while he sits. “You need to find her.”

“Who?”

Genya growls. “Nikolai.” 

“She is gone, Genya. Do not attempt to find her through my resources, please.”

“You bastard. I am not the one who pines for her. Find her.” 

“I will not deprive the coffers of money that could be used for reinforcing our borders in order to go on a wild chase after a girl who could be across the True Sea now. And beyond that, I cannot imagine she would be very pleased to see me again.” 

“But you would like to see her.”

Nikolai fixes her with a hard look. “What is done is done, Genya.” He points up at the mantle, where a small gold clock stands guard over the rest of the room. “The clock keeps turning, keeps ticking, and there is no method of rethreading time. Ravka is my present and my future. She is in my past, just as she should be in yours.” He stands. Genya can no longer look down at him. “Good night, Genya.” 

He takes the entire crystal decanter of brandy with him on the way out. 

~*~

The planks creak under Zoya’s heavy steps. Her feet ache from hurrying around the pub, and her arms are sore from carrying dishes. She can hardly wait to sink into her bed, as ragged and dirty as it is. 

Zoya is about to unlock the door to her room before she freezes. The door is already open, a tiny sliver of light casting a line into the hallway. Someone is in her room. 

She tampers down the panic that rises in her. She is Grisha, and a powerful one at that. Whomever had decided that she would be an easy target is sorely mistaken. Energy thrums under her skin. Zoya closes her eyes and counts.

On three, she bursts into the room, hands held out, ready to attack. 

“I told you she would think we were intruders,” Tolya snaps at his sister, eyes focused warily on the small clouds surrounding Zoya’s fingers. Tamar simply glares at her brother, both of them sitting quite comfortably on Zoya’s mattress.

“What the hell are you two doing in my room?” Zoya demands. She does not lower her hands. 

“We need your help,” Tamar says. She adds, “We simply want to talk. You can put your hands down.” 

Reluctantly, Zoya drops her arms to her side. “I do not want your help.” 

“Please,” Tolya says. “Listen to us first.” 

Zoya takes a seat on her rotting wooden chair. “Fine. Speak. You have five minutes.”

“Can your neighbors hear us?” 

“The walls are thin, but the local casino is holding a party tonight. My neighbors to my right and below me are not home, and my neighbor to my left works a late shift at the brothel down the street. You may speak freely.” 

“We would like you to help us.”

“In what capacity?” Zoya folds her arms.

“As a spy. We have suspicions that there is a plot brewing in this neighborhood to bring down the government.” 

“And why would I do that? Help you again? After you deceived me? Made a fool of me?”

“Because you believe in this country as much as we do.” Tamar leans forward. 

“This country has taken something from me at every turn.” Zoya glares. “If Ravka is drowning, I say let it drown.”

“When you agreed to help our cause, that first day you arrived at the Gilded Blog, that may have been true. But now, after your efforts to help us keep the Fjerdans back, your attitude towards this country has changed. If you cannot be considered a patriot, Zoya, no one can.”

“You see something in this country,” adds Tolya. “When Tamar and I left Shu Han, we turned towards Ravka because we knew that we would be accepted—in some capacity—here. Our kind is still looked upon with distaste, but that is quickly changing. Ravka is becoming the last safe haven for Grisha on the continent.” 

“That may be true, but I want no stake in this. I want no stake in the intrigues of the palace.” 

“Zoya, think of Arkesk. Think of those who were executed before you and will be executed after you. If the king remains in power, he will ensure that nothing like that ever happens again. No more executions. No more persecution.” 

Tolya speaks with so much poetic hope that Zoya can feel her heart reaching out for him. She does remember Arkesk. She does remember standing on the scaffold and she does remember being jeered at by the crowd. 

She remembers a stranger emerging from the crowd. 

“How do I know I can trust you?” 

“Because we believe in the same vision.”

~*~

“Your Majesty?” 

Nikolai stifles a groan and turns back to the Apparat, plastering a placid façade onto his face. “Yes, Apparat?”

The man traces the seams of his black robes with his long fingernails. “There is, of course, the matter of your marriage.”

“My marriage?”

“You are an unmarried king in a time of crisis, Your Majesty. There is no better way to ensure that Ravka has sufficient resources than through an advantageous marriage. I have already taken the liberty of compiling a list of several brides—”’

“On whose orders?”

The Apparat blinks. “Your Majesty?”

“I do not recall granting you the liberty of performing such a task, Apparat.” Nikolai fixes him with a cold look. His patience seems to wear thin every time he is in the Apparat’s presence. “When I search for a bride, I will alert you.” The Apparat’s eyebrows draw together and a fleeting moment of anger crosses his face. Nikolai cannot find it in himself to care. He leaves the man gaping behind him.

“That was unwise.” 

This time, Nikolai does not hold back his frustrated groan. “Must I be followed by a shadow every time I walk through this palace?”

Genya fixes him with a cool glance and ignores his outburst. “The Apparat has his own network.” 

“And?”

“And I fear for you.”

“The Apparat is a man nearing his midnight years.”

“He has his own network of spies under the city. Rumors have long suggested that he has much of the First Army in his grasp.”

Nikolai goes cold. He has not been deaf to the gossip surrounding the Apparat’s role in the palace, but it is one thing to see the man standing behind the throne and another thing to be sitting before him. “Where are Tolya and Tamar? I expected them to return here hours ago.”

Genya inclines her head. “I suppose they are on their way back.” 

“Good. Take them to David’s workshop. Secure the space.” Nikolai speaks carefully. “I would like a safe room for the five of us to converse in.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” 

He cannot shake the feeling that the eyes of the Lantsovs on the walls are following him as he departs.

~*~

This is madness. Zoya’s nails scrape against the glass tumblers as she wipes them down with a tattered gray rag. Beneath her long lashes, she casts a broad gaze over the tavern. 

“We have suspicions that there are individuals in this part of the city who wish to do harm to the throne,” Tamar had said. “With your employment at the pub, there is a great likelihood that they will pass in and out, attempting to recruit members to their cause or pass messages. You have the ability to remain unseen and ignored whilst they perform their treason.”

If Zoya had known that espionage would require working long shifts and dealing with an

even rowdier crowd than normal, she would have thought harder before accepting the twins’ proposal. 

“Eager to earn more money, girl? You’ve near scared off the rest of my barmaids with your work ethic.” The pub owner sidles up to her. “The rest of them, they can’t wait to get out of here once their shift’s over, but you stay and help me sweep the floors. I’m getting so much of my money’s worth, I’d add to your wages if I could. You know I don’t pay for over time work, do you?”

“Yes.” Zoya places the mug back onto the shelf.

“Nowhere else to go, then?”

“No.” 

The pub owner’s cloudy gray eyes seem regretful. “I know what that’s like, that. I had a life before this pub.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing much, really. People are born into this area of the city, and they die in this area of the city. My parents did. I will too. But it takes a little while for people to realize that. It took a little while for me to realize that.” She rests her elbow on the jagged wooden counter. “I was . . . something of an attractive girl when I was younger. People would take a second look at me on the street and all that. I thought I would be pretty enough to catch the attention of someone who could get me out of this sinkhole.” 

She sighs. “And someone did notice me. A baron. But he was already married. He bought me little gifts: jewelry, lace, even porcelain from his travels to Shu Han. I thought he might leave his wife.” The pub owner gives a little bitter laugh. “That’s the part that I still can’t believe. That I thought he would marry me, a no-name girl from the gutter.” She goes silent again. Then, so quietly that Zoya can barely hear her, “He did love me though. That’s why I forgave him. I forgave him for it all, even as I left his home in the freezing darkness of our last night together and I knew that the gifts and the jewels had to stop and we had to return to our birthrights. Him to his gilded manors and petticoated wife, and me to my crumbling apartment.” 

It is difficult for Zoya to reconcile the woman in front of her with the story that she has just told. The pub owner is short, face worn through with lines, hair graying, fingers prematurely wizened. Had she once had smooth skin and dark hair? Long, graceful fingers and a bright laugh instead of her gravelly warnings? 

“I am sorry.”

“We do what we can to survive in our own worlds. He made a choice in his world before I could make a choice in mine.” The pub owner fixes Zoya with an appraising eye. “I don’t know what choice you made to leave your world, but I hope it was worth it, because this world down here isn’t going to give you anything better.” 

Before Zoya can respond, one of the few customers left calls for a refill and the pub owner hurries away. She exhales and braces herself on the counter. The woman had made it seem so permanent, the division of worlds within their world. But it is not, is it? Zoya had been born into bleak circumstances and had made herself a silver platter. And now she is back where she started. 

“Barmaid, one beer.” A tall, thin man sits down at the counter and lays down a silver coin before her. He has a handsome, sharp face with a neatly groomed beard and sandy hair. Emerald eyes gleam at her from beneath arched eyebrows. “Actually, make it two. I’m waiting for someone.” 

Zoya silently fills his order. Hairs on her arms had raised when the man had first sat down. 

This is him. This is the suspected traitor. 

“A friend?” She asks, attempting to seem as nonchalant as possible. 

His gaze travels up and down her face, as if taking in all her features. “An associate. You’re new here, are you not? I haven’t seen you before.” 

“I’ve been here for a few weeks.” 

He looks at her over the rim of his tumbler. “What’s your name?” 

“Natalia.”

“Well, Natalia, do you have a last name?”

“Petrova.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Natalia Petrova. I’m Evgeni.”

“Well, Evgeni, do you have a last name?”

He laughs, a strong, clear sound. “Zima. Evgeni Zima.” 

“A pleasure.” 

“What do you do?”

“Me?” A smile plays at the edges of his lips, enigmatic. “By day, I build barracks for the king.”

“And by night?”

“By night . . .” He traces the handle of his mug. “By night I make sure the king’s barracks won’t serve him any purpose when the time comes.” 

Zoya has to stiffen her entire body to stifle the shiver that trickles like sap down her spine. Thankfully, Evgeni is distracted by sudden movement. “Alek! There you are.” 

Alek is equally tall, but with licorice black hair instead of Evgeni’s sandy blond. “Evgeni. I have only half an hour to spare.”

“That will be more than enough, my friend.” 

Evgeni and Alek are the only two customers left before the pub closes. The pub owner has already made her way upstairs, leaving her to do the last few chores. 

Zoya moves into the kitchen to wash the vegetables for tomorrow’s breakfast menu. She is halfway through the carrots before she realizes that she has left the washing bin beneath the counter. 

“We cannot hesitate in this pursuit, Alek. The new king is young and untested. Our source says that he chafes against his councilors and with his long absence, many have lost his respect. This is our time to strike!”

“Caution, Evgeni, I beg of you.”

“Damn caution. Our supporters grow by the day. The crowds we address grow stronger. Discontent is rife. If we wait any longer, we will lose our traction.”

“Do not think that I am less committed to our cause than you are, Evgeni. But we must be cautious. We were lucky with the other Lantsov boy; I don’t like testing our fortune in such quick succession.” 

Zoya’s blood runs cold.  _ The other Lantsov boy. _ They mean Vasily.

These are the men who killed Vasily. 

She is still standing in the doorway of the kitchen, only half-hidden by the shadows. If one of the men turned, even slightly, they would see her. Taking a deep breath, she moves. 

Alek starts as she comes into view. Zoya keeps her head down, demure and proper. “I forgot my washing bin,” she explains, squatting down beneath the bartop and drawing out the metal pan. “Sorry for interrupting your conversation.” She dares the briefest of gazes. 

Alek’s eyes are fully narrowed, and it looks as if he might try to tackle her any moment. Evgeni is less tense, offering her a charismatic smile, though she can see the suspicion behind it. “It’s no bother. We wouldn’t want you to be responsible for dirty vegetables.” 

Zoya gives what she hopes is an embarrassed chuckle and hurries off. Once she is safely behind the kitchen walls, she lets her breath crash out of her lungs and take her. 


	5. v. the son of a vile harlot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're all living through some pretty insane times right now. I hope that you are safe and sound. For those of you who are non-essential workers, I hope you are taking the CDC social distancing/quarantining guidelines seriously; I know it's against all things human to stay cooped up inside for long periods of time, but it's the best way to stay safe and ensure that this crisis is over quickly. For those of you who are essential workers, I can't thank you enough for what you're doing right now. Doctors, grocery store workers, custodians—I hope you get the recognition you deserve and I hope you get reimbursed (in money, insurance, fucking _everything_) for putting your life on the line for the rest of us. Thank you so much. 
> 
> Alas, life may stop but fanfiction never does. I hope this chapter eases some of your hearts out there. ♥
> 
> Information about prichitanie and the lyrics to the song at the start of the chapter can be found [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/russian/comments/bxhw56/looking_for_russian_funeral_songs/?ref=readnext).

_ Behold, she thinketh to move me to pity, and to make me a grandmother to her child! Am not I happy that in the flourishing time of all my age I shall be called a grandmother, and the son of a vile harlot shall be accounted the grandson of Venus? _

-Apeleius, _ The Tale of Cupid and Psyche _

There are certain parts of a funeral that remain private, even for royals. 

_ Ah, blow you boisterous winds _

_ to the four sides of the world, _

_ scatter the white snows _

_ to all the four sides, _

_ and you, Great Mother Moist Earth, fall to dust _

Nikolai breathes heavily. After so many years on the sea—with neither priests nor churches in sight—he cannot say that he is much of a pious individual. Even so, he says a silent prayer that there is a chapel attached to the palace so that Vasily can receive his rites in private. The whole city does not have to be privy to the king’s unwanted grief. 

_ O come, rise up, my dear mother, _

_ get to your quick feet. _

_ And without you, dear mother, _

_ our feasts are no feasts, _

_ our dining tables have no food for us. _

The king lets his eyes flicker to the chorus of women that sing their sorrow for his brother. _ Prichitanie _ is a rapidly declining tradition; maidens these days do not wish to carry the constant whisper of death in their voices. It is only the elderly, the life-worn, that dedicate themselves to the art of their ancestors. 

Still, there are a few young women among the sea of elders. Nikolai watches as tears slide down the plump cheeks of one girl. _ You never knew him, _ he wants to say. _ How can you weep for someone you never knew? _

But perhaps that is the life of such a singer. To open their hearts to the grief of others. To vocalize what those in mourning cannot say. In any case, perhaps the only way one could truly mourn Vasily was if they had never known him. 

The patriarch leans over Vasily’s forehead. Nikolai can see the man’s mouth moving in prayer, though something inside him stops him from hearing his words. Vasily looks peaceful. Tendrils of aromatic smoke whorl around his head. There is no malice in his features, no sneering condescension. 

Is that what Death brings? Peace? An end to all suffering? Nikolai feels old, so painfully beyond his twenty-odd years. 

_ Thanks be to you, oaken tables, _

_ for having stood on your legs; _

_ and thanks be to you, hearty loaves, _

_ for feeding us full; _

_ and thanks to you, acid wine, _

_ for getting us drunk. _

_ Now is my head all drunk, _

_ drunk without bread or salt… _

The singers’ voices reach a deafening climax, and Nikolai twists his body away from the scene, breaking formation with the rest of the council. 

“Your Majesty? Will you not stay?” 

“I have seen enough,” he says curtly. Tolya comes to flank him. Disapproval is apparent in the man’s eyes. 

“This is inauspicious,” Tolya mutters to him as they leave Vasily and the church and the singers behind. 

“Piety is your speciality, not mine.” Nikolai looks at him. “My brother will be buried in three days. I will witness the auspiciousness then.” He turns away. “If you would prefer to stay, then stay.”

Tolya opens his mouth, then closes it. He follows his king. 

~*~

“Natalia Petrova!” 

Evgeni flashes her a brilliant smile as he sits down. He has become something of a regular customer since their first meeting. Or, at least, that is what the pub owner told Zoya, with a pointed glance. 

“Hello, Evgeni. The usual?”

“Yes, please.” She slides the mug over to him. But he does not drink. “Natalia, I’ve been thinking.”

“About what?” Zoya leans her hip on the counter. 

“About you.” Evgeni looks at her beneath low eyelids. 

“Is that so?”

“Quite so.” The man traces the curve of the mug’s lip, never once breaking eye contact with her. “You are . . . ravishing.” 

“I know.” 

Evgeni barks a laugh that makes the other patrons turn their heads. “Are you free tomorrow night?” 

Zoya frowns. “No. I promised to take the pub’s dues down to the tax collector tomorrow night.” 

“And you can’t shirk your duties, even for just one night?” He raises an eyebrow at her, the low timbre of his voice like pinpricks in her skin. Evgeni flashes her a smile. “Please, oh please, dear Natalia?” 

“I’m . . .” she hesitates. “I’m free the night after tomorrow night.” 

“Excellent. I’ll see you then.” Evgeni slips his arms into his coat sleeves and throws down a silver coin.

“Where?” 

“The Viper’s Nest.”

~*~

The Viper’s Nest is a notorious gambling den located in the worst part of the city. Zoya tucks her coat tighter around her chest, but it is not enough to stifle the shiver that slices through her. She has taken care to wear sturdy shoes with soft soles so that she can hear everything in the shadows . . . and run if needed. 

She is Grisha, likely more powerful than any criminals that might try to attack her, but Saints help her, she is scared. 

Lanterns illuminate the towering block letters on the roof of the building. THE VIPER’S NEST. The sun has yet to disappear below the horizon, but people are already clustered at the entrance: men with permanent curls to their lips and baggy tailored suits; women with too much makeup and not enough clothes; and children tugging at their parents’ hands, not noticing the dark look in their eyes. This is a place of money and sex and alcohol and treachery. 

“Natalia.” She catches sight of Evgeni lingering near the doorway, hands tucked into the dark pockets of his suit. She takes his arm. “Evgeni Zima and Natalia Petrova,” he tells the burly guard blocking the entrance. The man nods and steps aside for them, ignoring the loudening crowd behind him. 

“Have you ever visited the Viper’s Nest before?” 

“No.” The inside of the casino is like nothing she has ever seen before. The walls are wooden, covered with peeling white paint. The tiles are a similar shade, decorated with swirling patterns reminiscent of lilies. Card and pool tables cover nearly the entire area, leaving aisles that are so narrow Zoya has to press herself against Evgeni to avoid hitting other people. She suspects that it is by design. 

“Do you gamble?”

“No.” 

He flashes her a smile. “I don’t, either.” 

“Then what are we doing here?” 

Evgeni shrugs. “You’ll see soon enough.” An unwelcome tingle seeps into her, and she resists the urge to shake his hand off and run. But this is the man who had killed Vasily—or had a hand in killing Vasily—and who is after the king. Zoya shakes off her trepidation. 

Alek waves them over from a half-moon shaped couch across the room. Still holding onto Evgeni’s arm, Zoya slides onto the cushions. Alek’s own companion looks woefully bored, swirling her drink with disinterest. 

“Have we met?” Asks Alek politely. His gaze burns into her. 

“At the pub.” Zoya separates herself from Evgeni. She hopes no one sees her wipe her damp palms on her dress. 

“Ah, yes.” The man takes a sip of his amber alcohol, dark eyes still fixed on her. “How are you enjoying the casino so far?”

“It is . . . nice. Do you own it?” 

Evgeni laughs. “Alek couldn’t own anything if it walked up to his doorstep and prostrated itself at his feet. No, this fine establishment is owned by that gentleman over there—” he points with his drink at a portly man leaning against a roulette table “—Kazimir.”

Zoya watches as Kazimir’s face goes plum purple before he screams at a croupier. The croupier just manages to jump out of the way as Kazimir’s heavy cane comes down on the table, scattering the chips across the floor. “Wonderful.”

“He can be temperamental,” Evgeni acknowledges. “But he’s a dear friend.”

“You are familiar with him?” 

“Oh, of course. It is thanks to Kazimir that we are able to hold public events.”

“Public events?” Zoya asks. She can still feel Alek’s eyes burning into the back of her head. 

Evgeni merely winks. “You’ll see.”

Alek’s companion slinks off the couch. “I’m going to refill my drink,” she says, her voice flat. When she realizes Alek will not spare her even the briefest of glances, she huffs and walks away.

Instead, his eyes burn right through Zoya’s. “Where are you from, Natalia?”

Zoya stifles a gulp. “The south.” 

“Where in the south?”

“Poliznaya.”

“I have an aunt who lives in Poliznaya,” Alek takes a sip of his whiskey. “Where did you live in Poliznaya?”

“On the—on the outskirts.” 

“The outskirts? Poliznaya doesn’t have much of a suburban area.”

“I apologize. It would be more appropriate to say that I lived close to Poliznaya, not directly in the city.” 

“Ah,” says Alek, his expression unreadable. He must decide that Zoya will provide him with no more information, because he turns to Evgeni instead. “The doors are not yet closed?”

“Patience, friend. They will close in a few minutes, and soon we will have the full devotion of the audience.”

Zoya smooths the pleats of her skirt with her palms, hoping that the motion comes off as casual rather than nervous. Her stomach feels tight, every fiber of her being telling her to run, run, run. Alek’s companion returns with an overflowing glass of wine. Drops slosh over the rim and onto her cream-colored dress, though she hardly seems to care. Her eyes are fixed on Evgeni, still leaning back against the couch. Zoya does not like the gleam in his eyes or his relaxed posture. She knows men and she knows what they want when they look as he does. 

All around them, business continues as usual. The flutter of cards echoes through the room, paired with screams of joy and despair. A few times Zoya sees men dragged out by their lapels, still screaming for Kazimir, “Please! Please, have mercy, I—!” The cries only die out when they are cut off by the slamming gunshot of the heavy doors. 

Alek’s head snaps up. “Evgeni. It’s time.” 

“Right.” Zoya jumps back as Evgeni hands her his drink, adjusts his jacket, and leaps onto the table. It seems that she is the only one surprised by this turn of events; both Alek and his companion continue to sip at their liquors, an impenetrable air of ennui wrapping itself around them. “Ladies and gentlemen!” 

Everything rolls to a stop. Cards sink to the tables without a whisper. Glasses stop clinking. A roulette wheel is hastily shushed, a ball click-clicking against dividers before it falls into a slot. All eyes look skyward, towards Evgeni. 

“Friends,” Evgeni smiles. “I am so glad to be able to gather so many followers of our cause here. _ Ne Ravka!” _

_ “Ne Ravka!” _ The room bellows. Zoya feels a chill slither down her spine. 

“The time has come, patriots. The time has come to return this country to the hands of the people that it belongs to. You and me. The _ people _ of Ravka, not the gluttons of the countryside or the simpering barons in the cities. And especially not the bastard sitting high above us on his perch in the golden castle. _ Nikolai Lantsov.” _ Evgeni spits the name with as much force as drops of wine from the glass of the woman beside Zoya splatter onto the couch. “What say you?” Evgeni roars. “Tell me, is there anyone in this room who harbors affection for our king? Speak up now! Sir—” Evgeni points to a thin man, so gaunt that his cheekbones look like they are ready to come out of his skin “—do you admire the young Lantsov?”

“No!” Cries the man in a thin, rough voice. Hunger shines in his eyes. “I would rather tie the boy’s limbs to my horses and watch them pull his body apart!”

The room erupts in similar cheers. “Down with the Lantsovs!” Screams one woman, elbowing a man in the jugular in her frenzy. 

“Fuck the king!”

“Bring Ravka back to the people!”

Zoya wants to run. She wants to crush Evgeni’s glass in her fist, summon a wind to send this place crashing in on itself, and run and run until the crazed screams fade from her memory. 

Evgeni holds up a hand. “My friends!” He shouts. “For so long we have relied on glimpses of a brighter future to sustain us. Starting tonight, that is no more. Tonight, I am proud to present to you that we will no longer live in the darkness.”

“And how are you going to do that?” A man shouts in the crowd. 

Evgeni smiles, his teeth flashing. “We are going to kill Nikolai Lantsov.”

~*~

Zoya runs. She runs and she runs and she runs. She runs until the Viper’s Nest fades into the background, and until the sight of Evgeni and Alek is nothing more than a crazed fever dream. 

_ We are going to kill Nikolai Lantsov. _

Evgeni had said enough in the den to sentence himself and the rest of the attendees to death. Zoya’s toe stutters on a pebble, and her bare forearms land squarely in the dirt. But she cannot stop. She is not safe until she reaches her flat, until she reaches the crusty, creaking floors she calls home. 

_ We are going to kill Nikolai Lantsov. _

Evgeni had stepped down from the table after riotous applause, looking at her with a pleased gleam in his eyes. “And you? What do you say, Natalia?” 

“I . . .” Zoya had felt Alek’s eyes piercing into her. “I say we kill the king.” 

Evgeni smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. “I knew there was more to you than you seemed, Petrova.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. 

_ We are going to kill Nikolai Lantsov. _

Zoya’s lungs beg for mercy and her legs ache. Please, please, please, she chants in her mind. Please, please, please. She scarcely has a grasp of what she is pleading for anymore. All she knows is that she has to pray, has to pray for something . . . 

_ We are going to kill Nikolai Lantsov. _

Zoya closes her door carefully. The floorboards shake to her left, screaming cries of pleasure undaunted by the thin walls. Zoya stumbles to her bed, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to block out her neighbors’ ecstasy. 

Tolya and Tamar had been here. She had told them about the meeting. They had probably stopped by not long ago to see if she was home—the direction of air on the dust pattern of her desk had been disrupted. Zoya looks around, her neck nearly cracking in her franticness. Would they come again in the morning to talk to her? She has an early shift at the pub. They would be greeted with another empty room. 

The shrieking continues next door, hitting a fever pitch. Zoya drops her head into her hands. She needs to warn them, she needs to warn them . . . 

_ We are going to kill Nikolai Lantsov. _

The king would be dead tomorrow. 

~*~

“There is nothing here,” Tamar hisses. 

Tolya stops rattling the dresser drawer. His eyes narrow. “You think she betrayed us?”

“No, I don’t think she betrayed us. But the longer we stay here, poking and prodding, the greater the chance of someone discovering us. And discovering her.” 

“There must be something here,” Tolya insists. “She went to that meeting yesterday night. We know there was commotion near the Viper’s Nest. Something must have happened.”

“We can come back tonight and see—”

“Wait. Tamar.” 

“What? What is it?” She comes to stand by her brother’s side. And they both see it. A message written across the top of her desk, soft gray clumps of dust spelling it out. 

~*~

“And how did you come by this information?” 

“We have a source.” 

“I assume your source has a name?”

He sees Tamar falter. “It is confidential,” she says finally.

Nikolai throws his head back and chuckles. “Surely you recognize the irony of that statement.”

“It would be better for you not to know about it. For your own safety.”

“Trust us,” Tamar implores. 

Nikolai sighs. “All right. But do you honestly think that the words ‘FUNERAL’ and ‘THE KING DEAD’ mean anything?” 

“It means enough,” Tolya says. “Your Majesty—Nikolai—please. You cannot go to the funeral.”

Nikolai rubs his forehead with the pads of his fingers. “I must.”

“Nikolai—”

“I will not keep the people’s favor. I have not yet been crowned. If I do not accompany Vasily to his final resting place, I will not be held in the regard of a king.”

“Damn what the people think,” Tolya growls. “Perhaps you will lose their favor, but at the very least, you will not lose your head.”

“And—” Tamar hesitates. “There is one detail of the plot you have not yet heard.”

“I do not need you to tell me.” Nikolai shakes his head. “Treachery runs deep in this ivory tower, and I have been waiting a long time to root it out.” He stands. “Now, I have a funeral to attend.”

~*~

For the death of a monarch, Os Alta is in unusually high spirits. 

Let us take a moment here to soften our opinion of Os Alta. Thus far we have described it as a strictly stratified society, rife with robbers at all levels of wealth. We have described it as a city without character, a city without loyalty. 

Yet we have also neglected to look upon the faces of the bedraggled children in the streets and the underdressed women leaning against dirt-slathered brick walls, exhaustion and seduction warring in their eyes. We have neglected to note the monstrous thinness of the cabbage-vendors, or the blacksmiths, or the tavern owners. We have neglected all of these human conditions and it has made us just as amoral as the charismatic young men who stand up on casino tables claim we are. 

So, our heads hanging in sure chastisement, we must forgive Os Alta for being inappropriately cheery on the morning of Vasily’s funeral. Because when the king’s casket is carted through the whole city, including through the poorest quarters, the soldiers will toss lustrous gold coins to passerbys and some families will buy their first real meal in two weeks. Money trails the Lantsovs like drops of blood drip from a murderer’s blade, the people say. And the people are hungry for blood. 

~*~

Zoya can hardly breathe, the entire day. The pub owner looks at her more than once and asks her if she is feeling all right more than once. All she can do is nod, snap back an answer, and return to pouring ale. But she cannot stop her eyes from shifting constantly to the windows and the door. 

Had the twins seen her message? Or is he still riding out, greeting the very people who would kill him without a sliver of mercy? 

“I don’t know what’s keeping you occupied in that mind of yours—” Zoya flinches as the pub owner snatches a tray from her hands “—but if you can’t deliver orders on time, you might as well go h—”

“The king!” Someone shouts from the corner of the pub. “It’s the king!” 

Another person flings the door open, and the pub patrons push their way out of the tavern with such force that the worn walls shake. The pub owner shakes her head in irritation. “I suppose we’d better go out to greet the king too.” 

Her heart is in her throat as she follows the crowd outside. People jostle and push each other for a chance to watch the procession. Children cling to their parents’ hands and try not to be trampled. Already, beggars are cupping their hands together, lifting them to the heavens. 

Zoya looks around frantically. Faint strains of singing drift down the street. Evgeni and Alek are surely nearby. But the crowd is so thick, and it would be easy for them to blend in . . . Zoya closes her eyes. She cannot do anything. Even if she tears her clothes off and stands naked in the middle of the street, no one would give her a second glance. Half of the crowd, she is sure, is part of the plot, and the other half cannot care less about the king. 

The soft clopping of horses echoes on the path, and soon the procession is in full view. Soldiers mounted on horseback lead the way, the dark olive of their uniforms reflecting the somber mood. Behind them, infantrymen hold little heavy sacks—the shape of coins poorly hidden by the burlap—and try to avoid being hit by begging hands. It seems like an eternity, watching the men and the mourners go by. Her heart aches for a glimpse of him, it does . . . 

But when Zoya sees him, lips set in a flat line, atop a horse, everything goes sickly still inside her. No. He cannot be here. She squeezes her eyes shut as if she can wish him away, like a bad dream. Where are Tolya and Tamar? Saints, she should have known better than to leave them a message in dust. It had probably faded by the time they’d arrived, and it was all her fault, all her fault . . . 

The king’s eyes drift from one side of the crowd to another, his brother’s casket like a shadow behind him. Zoya wants so badly to scream out. Instead, she dips her head down and averts her eyes. Her heart clenches. What had possessed her to move to Os Alta in the first place? She had her share of cities to go to. She could have moved back to Arkesk. She could have gone to Ketterdam. But she had chosen Os Alta, practically living in the king’s backyard. 

She hadn’t been able to bear being away from him. 

And now she is about to be separated from him forever. 

A glint of gold catches her eye in the crowd. Evgeni. 

“No,” she whispers. 

The pub owner turns to her. “Did you say something—”

The explosion knocks them off their feet. Zoya’s head hits the ground, a dull _ thud _ ringing in her ears. Someone is screaming near her. She feels hands on her shoulders, shaking her. “We need to go!” The pub owner shouts in her ears. Zoya touches her throat. It feels raw, and she realizes that the person screaming is her. 

“No,” she chokes. “I have to—I have to—”

“The Imperial Army will be here any moment.” The woman’s voice holds a hint of resignation. “We’d better get going.” 

Zoya doesn’t fight the pub owner’s grip as she drags her back into the tavern. All she does is keep her eyes fixed on the spot where the king had been, now shrouded in swirling dust. 

~*~

“Bring him to me.” Nikolai’s voice would have sounded even-tempered, even casual to the average passerby. To the rest of the Grisha council, it was a sound worse than death. 

“With pleasure,” murmured Tolya, exiting the scene. 

There is still dust and dirt on Nikolai’s uniform, blood trickling down his temple. His fists clutch the arms of his chair so tightly that he knows the undersides of his fingers will bruise. He is not dead. They have failed, the nameless and faceless assassins. 

But oh, how easy it all was. Looking over the faces of his people, bedraggled and as poor as the dirt they sprung up from. How easy it would have been, to convince them that the king was nothing more than another glutton of the Lantsov line. Nikolai clenches his teeth, and this time he does curse his brother and father. He curses them for their fat fingers and wandering eyes and criminal touches and—

“Your Majesty!” The Apparat cries out as his head hits the wooden table with a crack. “Your Majesty, what is the meaning of this?”

“What is the meaning of this? What is the meaning of this?” Nikolai lets out a cold laugh. “You lying, treacherous, slimy little fuck.”

“Your Majesty,” the Apparat’s eyes are wide with fear. He straightens his robes. “Your Majesty, please, I do not know what you speak of—”

Nikolai’s fist comes down on the table so hard that a fissure materializes in the dark wood. “You do not know what I speak of? YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT I SPEAK OF?” He roars. Genya flinches next to him. The king prowls forward, pure fire underlying every move. His nose is almost touching the Apparat’s, eyes so close to his that Nikolai is sure the man can see the wisps of green that form his irises. He tries to wriggle away, but Tolya keeps a powerful grip on the back of his neck. “Tell me, Apparat, how long have you been waiting to kill me?”

“Your Majesty, I—I would never!”

“You would never. Well, it seems as though you have.” Nikolai tilts his head and extends his hand. “The papers, please, Tamar.” She passes him a tied stack of letters without taking her eyes off of the traitor. “Observe.” He clears his throat and begins reading. “The third of May, two weeks before Vasily’s death: I have invited the king to midnight prayers. His chambers will be empty. It will be easy to slip something into his wine.”

“Your Majesty, I—”

“Silence.” The word is short and sharp and cruel. “The tenth of May, the day I was set to return to Os Alta: It seems as though the bastard prince is on his way here. We must dispatch him quickly and quietly.”

“Your Majesty, I—”

“Did I not tell you to be silent?” Nikolai snarls. “And from yesterday: Everything is set. The king will ride out at noon, Vasily’s casket in front of him. Were you surprised to see me sitting here when you came in, Apparat? Surprised to see me alive, after your best efforts?”

“Your Majesty, I swear I had no idea of any attempt to harm you.” The man’s voice is weak, as though he hadn’t expected to be able to finish his sentence. 

“Saints help me.” Nikolai tilts his head skyward, looking at the intricately painted ceiling of the council room. Sankt Petyr raises his hands, winds whirling around him. The sight pains him for a reason he is not willing to let himself acknowledge. “The evidence is lying right before you, and still you cannot bring yourself to be an honest man.” 

The Apparat is silent for a few moments. Then, “I did it for my country.”

“You would strip your country of its king?”

“I would strip it of a false, bastard king.” Gone is the simpering, timid lunatic. There is only ice and malice left. Tamar steps forward, eyes blazing. Nikolai holds up a hand. 

“But that has failed.” Nikolai matches the man’s coldness tenfold. “And we already know exactly who is involved in the plot. Thanks to your servants.” The Apparat’s eyes widen, and for the first time true fear shines in them. “Yes, it’s quite astounding how much information people are willing to give up for a coin. Remind me never to cross my attendants.” The king jerks his head towards the door. “Send word to the executioner. Tell him that he will need to prepare the gallows by sunrise tomorrow.”

“Your Majesty, please! I beg you, please!” The Apparat thrashes against Tolya’s hold the whole way out of the room, sobbing. “Please, Your Majesty—!” 

Nikolai never breaks eye contact with him, even as the door slams shut. 

~*~

Zoya had looked sufficiently shocked that the pub owner had given her the rest of her shift off. Now she sits in the corner of the room, a dirty blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Eyes staring at nothing. 

The king . . . 

She’d seen it, the way he closed his eyes as the bomb went off. Men’s screams filled the air, but he alone had been serene. As if he had accepted his death, had besworn himself to accept it. 

Zoya fists the rough material in her hand and wills herself not to let the tears drip down. It had been so easy an eternity ago, when she had been a girl on her way to the stake and he had been a face in the crowd. Now there is only her, drowning in her own pride and overdue death. 

She weeps. She weeps for him and she weeps for herself, for the twisting of her heart that could never disappear. She feels so impossibly old and worn; she had pushed against the world and it had pushed back, its strength tenfold. 

Her vision is so blurred with tears, her head down against the world, that she does not notice the angry tread of boots until they are directly underneath her and their owner’s hands are on her.

She may be in mourning, but she is still Zoya Nazyalensky and she will not be manhandled. “What are you doing?” She cries, her tears cracking the words. Alek yanks her even more roughly to her feet. Evgeni’s face hovers behind him, its humor replaced by obscene enjoyment. “Let me go!”

“No.” Alek snarls. 

Zoya raises her hands, wind slicing through the room before she feels something cold nudge her head forward. There is a slow click. The person behind her holds the gun steady. 

“I warned you,” the pub owner murmurs softly. “We do what we can to survive in our own worlds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	6. my maidens sorrow and sadness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is doing well and staying safe. ♥

_ When Venus espied her she began to laugh, and as angry persons accustom to do, she shook her head and scratched her right ear, saying, "O goddess, goddess, you are now come at length to visit your mother, or else to see your husband, that is in danger of death by your means. Be you assured I will handle you like a daughter. Where be my maidens Sorrow and Sadness? _

-Apeleius, _The Tale of Cupid and Psyche_

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who loved her father. 

Her father was a kind man who always had pockets full of small treasures—candy, coins, and flowers. His hands were strong and he loved to lift the little girl up in the air and swing her around until she giggled and forgot whatever she was upset about. He was tall and slender, so handsome that the little girl was proud to hold his hand in the village. The worst days were the days where he was not there; for on those days, the little girl had to endure her cruel mother and her even crueler sisters. She would plead with her father not to go, yet he would simply smile at her and leave. But he would always come back. And on the days that he came back, his pockets would be filled anew with new treasures. 

Until he returned one day in the rain and she learned to hate him instead of love him. 

The little girl heard the door open and saw her father silhouetted in the thunder and the lightning. She began to run to him, but a shadow fell over her. She shrank back. 

“Well? Where is it?” Her mother’s voice was grating.

“I’m sorry . . .”

“You’re sorry?” She shrieked. The little girl tried to cover her ears, but the woman’s voice was too loud. She wished her sisters were here, though they wouldn’t have cared about watching their parents. Her mother and father had always had these arguments. The little girl and her sisters had all learned to race away at the first sneered word. “I gave up everything for you! I—I could have married the duke’s son—”

“Then why didn’t you?” Her father shouted back. He looked so cold and wet, and the little girl longed to bring a blanket to him. But her mother still blocked the way. 

“Because I loved you! I loved you, and I was blind!” 

The little girl knew what love was. She knew her father loved her. But she had never heard people speak of love that way—in piercing, awful tones. She shrank back. It was her mother making the word ugly, she decided. Her father knew what love was; he said it to her every time before he went out the door. She could not remember the last time her mother had ever said something like that to her. 

“You went to the gambling den again, didn’t you?” 

Her father hung his head. “I—”

“Why do you stay?” Her mother wrung her hands. They were trembling. “You give us false hope every time you go out that door. Our daughters.  _ Me.” _ Her voice shook. 

“I was trying to bring home more money. I would have doubled—”

“You  _ would _ have. You  _ would  _ have. But instead, you brought home nothing.” Her mother’s pale arm shone in the glint of the fireplace as she raised it, and the little girl realized with a jolt that she was wiping away tears. “Why do you do this?”

“I—”

“No. No more. I can’t look at you right now. I’m—I’m going to bed.” 

The little girl watched her father very carefully. Now that she was no longer peeking through the legs of her mother, she could see the entirety of his face. She had never noticed the crease in his brow, or the lines across his cheeks. He rubbed his knuckles across his eyes. 

“Come here,” her father said softly, finally catching sight of her. The little girl walked slowly to his side, each step more difficult than the last. Her father hefted her onto his knee. “Did you hear all of that?”

She nodded silently. “What did she mean—”

“It was nothing. I promise you. Sometimes . . . sometimes adults have arguments.” Her father bounced her a little and smiled. The little girl tried not to focus on the way his eyes did not match his lips. “Now, would you like to see what I have in my pocket?”

When the little girl tasted the candy, it left a sour taste on her tongue. 

~*~

Zoya wakes in a cold sweat. The mattress under her is wet and soft in some places, and the entire room reeks of mold. Her hands are bound and she is still wearing the same clothes. She blinks rapidly, the thin sliver of light from the barely-cracked open window not nearly enough to illuminate the room. 

“Hello, Natalia.” There is a dull, hard sound as Alek sets down his glass of whiskey. Besides a purpling bruise under his right eye, he seems no more worse for wear than when she had last seen him. 

“What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?”

“Don’t act the village idiot, Natalia. It’s not endearing.” He leans forward. “We know who you are.”

“I am Natalia Petrova—”

“No, you are not. Your name is not Natalia Petrova. You are a spy for the king.” 

“No—”

“We found your little message in your flat. Very concise and very damning. For you.” 

“You were in my flat—”

“And, of course, we had some assistance from your pub owner. She has been a member of our moment for years.” Alek shakes his head. “It’s a true shame. You are very young, Natalia. You could have had a full life if you hadn’t chosen the wrong side.” 

“What will you do to me?” Zoya hates the way she stumbles over some of her words. She is  _ Zoya Nazyalensky,  _ for fuck’s sake, and she has endured much worse than this. She has been been playing chess with Death since birth, and her turn is long overdue. 

“Evgeni suggested . . . keeping you. But I’m afraid I had to reject him. After all—” Alek’s smile is a slash of white “—there will be no place for straying allegiances in the new Ravka.” 

~*~

_ “What?” _

“Nikolai—”

“No, no. No, no, no.” Nikolai drops his head into his hands before raising a finger and pointing it vaguely in Tamar's direction. “What?” 

“Zoya. She is working for us.”

“No. That is impossible. She left—”

“And we found her again.”

“In Os Alta?”

“In Os Alta.”

Nikolai runs the palms of his sailing-roughed hands across his face. “How long?”

“A few months.” 

_ A few months. _ Zoya is somewhere out there. Somewhere out there, so close to him that he can whisper her name into the swirling night and have her hear it. The king breathes harshly. 

They say that after formative events in one’s life, memories begin to be structured around that one event. One begins to remember things as  _ the memories before  _ and  _ the memories after. _ For some, it is  _ the memories before I married _ and  _ the memories after I married. _ For some, it is  _ the memories before he died  _ and  _ the memories after he died. _

And for Nikolai Lantsov, it is  _ the memories before Zoya  _ and  _ the memories after Zoya.  _

“Where is she?”

Tamar shifts. “We do not know.”

Nikolai’s head snaps up and he meets her eyes for the first time. “What do you mean?” 

“Tolya and I went to her flat. In the early morning, two hours after midnight. She was not there.”

“Perhaps she stayed out late.” 

“No. We have a list of her shifts. She was supposed to be working an early shift today at the pub. She would have gone to bed early.”

“Is she at the pub?” 

“Tolya is checking right now, but with that part of the city in an uproar, we fear . . . we fear she may be caught in a plot.”

“A plot?” Genya asks.

“Zoya passed messages to us at great risk. She infiltrated the ranks of Os Alta’s rebel group, and was eventually invited to one of their gatherings. That was where she discovered the plans for assassination. Tens—maybe hundreds—of people saw her there. She has a target on her back.”

Zoya. Zoya. Zoya. The two syllables of her name alternate with the blood thrumming in his ears, both aligned with the sonorous beat of his heart. Zoy-a. Zoy-a. Zoy-a. “Find her.” Nikolai says the words without thinking. 

“Of course.” Tamar nods. “I will make contact with Tolya. And—”

“I am coming with you.”

“What?” Genya gasps. “Nikolai, no! The people out there, the assassins—”

“The assassins are still regrouping. No doubt the failure of their little plan cost them years of work.”

“But the lone wolves—”

“They will wait. There will be a moment in the future when I am weak, and that is when they will strike. Not today. Today, I have time.” Nikolai fastens his cloak. “But there is another person out there who may not be as fortunate.”

Zoy-a, Zoy-a, Zoy-a.

~*~

“Turn me in.”

There is a blindfold over her eyes, but Zoya can feel the room still as Alek pauses. “What do you mean?” 

“You know I am Grisha. That is why we are down here, in this dark basement, because I cannot feel anything through the brick walls. You have bound my hands so that I cannot use them to summon anything.” She pauses. “Why kill me? You would fetch a handsome sum if you revealed me to one of the more radical dukes. It would be more than enough money to rebuild your organization.”

Silence. And then Alek’s loud, boisterous laugh. 

Zoya almost flinches. He is much closer to her than she had anticipated. “Oh, you are clever. It only makes me wish even more vehemently that you had been with us instead of against us. But no, dearest Natalia. We won’t be turning you in.” 

There is a slow silence where the only thing Zoya can hear is the rush of her blood in her constricting veins. The brief peace is shattered by the ugly warmth of Alek’s breath near her ear, his lips nearly touching her skin. 

“But I’ll make sure to personally deliver your last regards to the king.”

~*~

Nikolai draws his hood further over his eyes. The sun has not set quite yet, and those with keener eyes and keener memories than the rest would surely recognize the country’s anointed monarch. The king ducks his head underneath the low stable ceiling, removes a small apple from his satchel, and strokes his horse’s mane as it munches loudly on its treat. “No sign of her?”

Tolya, similarly clad in dark and drab clothes, shakes his head. “No.” 

“Then we must continue onwards.”

“Nikolai.” Tamar opens her mouth, then closes it. She sighs. “Nikolai, we share your determination to retrieve Zoya, but this search could take some time. It would take more than a week to search every single room in Os Alta. Not to mention the possibility that the rebels could have whisked her out of the city. And legally—”

“So do it illegally.” The horse snorts softly and nudges Nikolai affectionately. 

“Nikolai, surely you do not mean that.” 

He fixes Tolya with cool hazel eyes. “I said what I intended to say.” 

“The laws against entering private property—”

“Are reserved for city patrols.” His voice hardens. “The concept of private property is a completely foreign subject to  _ me. _ It is as foreign a subject as a Ravkan citizen is to the queen of Shu Han.” Nikolai nods once. “And I must inform you—perhaps regrettably—that I am fully prepared to carry out my order myself. And by myself.”

Tolya and Tamar exchange a look. 

Outside the stables, sunlight droops below the horizon. The dark tendrils of night seep into the light sky. And in the cellar of a nameless building, Zoya Nazyalensky is about to meet her fate. 

~*~

The little girl was very tired of being cold and lonely. And she was very tired of her sisters. 

“Give it back!” 

“No! It was mine first!” 

The little girl rested her cheek on her arm and watched them tug at a doll. It was not even a very pretty doll—she vaguely remembered holding a more delicate, porcelain doll in her hands, once. Many years ago. 

“Girls!” 

“Mama!” The sisters chorused and ran towards the woman. Except for the little girl. She shrunk back against the wall and observed. 

Her mother was not very old, but she looked very old. Almost as old as her father had looked the day he had been covered with dirt and gone forever. 

“Well? Will you not come greet your mother?” 

The little girl shuffled forward. “Hello, Mama.” 

A small smile curved the woman’s lips, and the little girl nearly stumbled back at the sheer warmth of the gesture. She wanted to reach forward and walk straight into her mother’s embrace. She would, if it were not for the two other girls currently occupying that spot. That, and the sinking feeling in the little girl’s stomach. 

Her mother had been seldom happy since long before her father’s death. And she had even more rarely been happy with the little girl. 

“Girls, I have some good news for you.”

“What is it, Mama? What is it?” Chorused the little girl’s sisters eagerly. They tugged at her. “Oh, Mama, tell us!”

Her mother chuckled. “In due time. Go put the kettle on the stove,” she told the oldest girl. “It is time for dinner.”

The little girl shuffled after her sisters, stomach curling at the thought of more stale bread and wet gruel, until her mother called after her. “Will you come here, dear?” 

The little girl blinked. “Yes, Mother?” She asked carefully, taking measured breaths as she turned around. 

Her mother reached out and grasped her hands in hers. The little girl had grown more than a few inches in the past year, but she was still small. Small enough that she had to tilt her head upwards to meet her mother’s eyes. “I have excellent news. You are to be married.” 

A sharp, surprised breath nearly knocked her over. The little girl withdrew a hand from her mother’s grip and pressed it to her stomach. “Mother?”

Her mother beamed. “His name is Valentin Grankin. He recently lost his wife and is in search of a new one. He caught sight of you in town a few weeks ago and asked me for your hand. I, of course, agreed.” She clapped her hands together. “He is a fine man, very experienced and very wealthy.”

“But I—Mother,” the little girl said weakly.

“What?” The little girl shrank back. There it was, the tone she knew so well. Her mother’s eyes went from wide and enthusiastic to narrowed and verging on fury. “Do you have opinions to voice on this matter? On this blessing?”

“No, of course not. Mother.” 

~*~

He is taking her outside. “Why?” Zoya asks. 

“Killing you inside the building is onerous,” drawls Alek. “Dragging your body up the stairs and out the door? And then having to mop up the trail of blood behind you?” He gives a vicious tug at her wrist bindings. “I’d rather do it in the middle of the street.”

“But aren’t you afraid of being found out? They are looking for me.” 

“The king?” Alek snorts. “I doubt it. The palace apprehended an agent of ours recently. A severe blow to the security of the crown. They’re bound to be scattered over that. There is no one coming for you, Natalia. No one.” 

For the first time, Zoya’s heart clenches. 

She recalls a distant memory. Standing upon a wooden scaffold, guarded by ducal henchmen, looking out at a sea of hatred. A quiet acceptance of her fate lodged in her chest, counting her final few breaths. Counting the breaths of Death, who had stood closer and closer with each passing second. 

And then—

And then. 

How could one describe the excruciating, exhilarating feeling of watching him emerge out of the crowd? Of feeling Death’s icy breath disappear at the nape of her neck? 

At times it feels like she must have dreamt the memory in the grips of a deadly fever.

At other times it feels like the only real thing she can cling to. 

~*~

The king slips his hands into his pockets and attempts to look as nonchalant. These are his subjects: the prostitutes, the vendors, the merchants that line the night-splattered streets. But they are also his enemies. The taste of rebellion is thick in the night, like a dense, sweet cake. The people are angry, and they are hungry. 

The hours pass rapidly, and he grows restless. Every moment is another moment where Zoya is not by his side. Every moment is another moment where she could be dead. Hanged, shot, mutilated, drowned, stabbed. Nikolai has murdered many times, and he has seen many more methods of murder. But the thought of Zoya bearing any of that violence makes him want to prostrate himself at a church altar and renounce his sins. 

A rouged woman covered in ragged clothing and melancholy brings a dirt-streaked man into a pleasure house. A vendor closes his stand for the day. Waifs hasten into the shadows, escaping the burn of the sunset. 

Another hour passes. 

~*~

The street is eerily quiet. There is no light peeking through Zoya’s blindfold. It must be after sunset. Close to midnight. 

Alek pushes her down. The rough, irregular stones embedded in the street cut into the skin stretched thin over her knees. Her head tips forward at the rough push of a gun barrel. 

“Any last words?”

“You would allow me to have them?”

“I am no monster. Though you may think that.” Alek adds after a short pause. “We are patriots, you and I. You simply chose the wrong country.” 

Zoya takes a deep breath. She casts her blindfolded gaze towards the sky. A small breeze whistles by her ears, begging her.  _ Do not, do not, do not. _

She thinks of her father. She thinks of her mother. She thinks of her sisters. 

She thinks of a grand manor shrouded in fog. She thinks of a scarlet-haired Tailor. She thinks of two fierce warrior siblings. She thinks of a gangly inventor. 

She thinks of a copper-haired privateer. 

She thinks of a fair-haired king. 

She thinks of a country brimming in a golden boy’s eyes and the promise of a new breath beyond the horizon. She thinks of a place where little Grisha girls can dream instead of languish. She thinks, and she hopes, and she realizes she wants it more than anything. 

_ “Ne Ravka.” _

The gun cocks. 

~*~

He sees the slender silhouette of a man. The voluptuous body of a gun wrapped around his hand. 

He sees the man standing over a hunched figure on the ground. Even from his hidden vantage point he can see the proud stiffness of her shoulders, the way she arches back to regain every sliver of lost pride. 

The king’s fingers curl around the scabbard of his sword.

~*~

There is a small sound at the end of the alley, and Zoya blinks underneath her blindfold. The air warping around her feels different. 

The gun slides off her hair. 

~*~

When the shot rings out, Nikolai stumbles. He stumbles just for a moment, his fingers coming up to touch his chest instinctively. But there is no weeping wound, no bleeding bullet buried in his skin. 

There is no bullet because when the man’s head turned towards Nikolai, Zoya had taken the opportunity to bring the entire weight of her body down on him. Her skull had landed against his nose with a sickening crunch. 

The gun fires several meters to Nikolai’s left. 

The man scrambles to his feet, but Nikolai is quicker. He pins his wrist down on the ground, hard enough that the gun falls out of his loosened grasp. It is kicked far out of sight. Nikolai rests a hard knee on the man’s chest, sword at his throat.

“You,” the man chokes. His lips curve in a sardonic smile. “Come to roll around in the dirt? I knew she was special, but I didn’t know she was  _ quite _ that special—”

A gurgle of blood interrupts his words. The blade of Nikolai’s sword finds purchase in the soft dirt underneath the man’s neck. 

~*~

Zoya runs. Zoya runs, and does not look back. 

Her hands are still bound and her eyes still blindfolded, but once she had tasted freedom—like licking one’s lips and finding a leftover sugar granule hidden in the corner—she had to chase it. 

~*~

The little girl was very pretty in her little golden dress, and that was what everyone told her. She was pretty, but she was not beautiful, because  _ pretty _ was light and fizzy on the tongue, perfect for a little girl like her. 

_ Beautiful  _ puckered the mouth, widened the smile, bit the lower lip, and slid the tongue against teeth. It was a word for a woman. 

And the people who shuffled by and told the little girl she was pretty did not much want to think about how she was a little girl being stuffed into a woman’s role. They pretended not to see the streaks down the little girl’s cheeks and the redness of her nose. 

“Stop crying,” snapped her mother. “You are embarrassing us.”

“You are embarrassing!” Her older sister parroted, tugging viciously at the little girl’s ear. Her younger sister sniggered.

“Mother,” the little girl said, sniffling. “Mother, I do not wish to marry Mister Grankin.” 

“Nonsense!” Her mother snarled. “And I’ll have no more of it. The guests are arriving. Put on your kokoshnik and go clean yourself up.” 

The little girl shuffled off into a little washroom. She watched herself in the mirror above the washbasin, though she could see little beyond the intricate spider web cracks in the glass. 

“Please.” 

~*~

When he turns around, Zoya is gone. 

“Shit,” Nikolai hisses, scrambling to his feet. He spares a brief look at the rebel, and then at the dark windows of the buildings around him. There would be no use in attempting to hide the body. If the man had been dispatched to personally take care of Zoya, then he must have been a high-ranking official. His disappearance would be noted, his body found within a matter of hours. 

The wind tickles the hair curled against the back of his neck. She is blindfolded. She cannot have run far. 

Nikolai’s steps are those of a trained soldier: careful and silent. His feet pad across the muddy ground with practiced ease. His hand sweats and feels clammy until he realizes that he is still gripping his sword. The dead man’s blood drips off of the tip, edging the metal in scarlet. 

~*~

The notes dripped one after the other like blood, slicking the air. A funeral dirge instead of a wedding march. 

The little girl’s slippered feet were silent as she wobbled down the aisle. She saw her husband—her soon-to-be husband—at the end of the aisle. He was a massive man, strong and brutish despite his age. There was a predatory glint in his eyes that made her tremble. 

The music stopped suddenly, and the little girl realized with a start that she was supposed to have made it all the way to the altar already. She was only halfway there. 

People began to turn. People began to stare. The little girl’s two sisters sneered. Her mother’s lips tightened in perfunctory displeasure. 

Her heart pounded so painfully in her chest that she was sure she would keel over from the force of it. She grit her teeth. She had to do this. She had to walk and pledge and marry in order to—

In order to do  _ what?  _

The force of the question nearly toppled her. 

The realization that she lacked an answer did make her stumble. The little girl would marry Grankin. And then what? Grankin would give her money. He would give her family money. In exchange for—in exchange for—

She was just a little girl. Surely he would not—

The little girl let out an agonized wail. The sound sent a tremble into the crowd. People squirmed in their seats. There were tears in her eyes now, her vision blurring. She clutched her bouquet of wilted peonies against her chest. 

No one was moving. No one would move. 

“Come here, girl!” A monstrous shadow fell over her. Grankin’s bruising grip imprisoned her wrist. The little girl shrieked as he began to drag her up the aisle, the petals of her bouquet and the delicate pleats of her dress crushed under her legs. She screamed and screamed and screamed. 

But no one moved. 

The little girl dug her heels into the ground. Her throat was raw and rough. She saw her life scattering before her eyes, past and present. Her father, her mother, her sisters, Grankin and everything beyond that she did not wish to see but saw anyway. 

A deafening boom of thunder rocked the church. The ceiling cracked open. She squeezed her eyes shut and dug her nails into the well within herself, the one that she had never known was there. 

And this time, it was not she who screamed. 

~*~

Two large, rough hands grasp her by the shoulders. Zoya opens her mouth, a gurgle of spit welling up in her throat as she prepares to scream. One of her captor’s hands presses her lips closed. “Zoya, stop.”

That voice. Those hands. This scent, like a souvenir of the high seas. 

When the king unties her blindfold, she does not shy away. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Leave me a review and tell me what you thought! 
> 
> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


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